The Affair
by eclecticLibra
Summary: A story about a man who chases a love he never had and loses the one he finds.
1. iii Foreword

**iii Foreword**

When I went to my friend and editor with the first draft of my completed manuscript and got it back covered in red ink and a note requesting the addition of a preface, I had to look up what a preface was. You see, I'm not a writer by any means; I've never undertaken a project like this before. So, although I knew a preface belonged at the beginning of the book, I didn't know what belonged in it. Luckily, _Google_ did. A preface, it said, is the introduction of a book, typically stating the scope, subject and aims.

We'll start with the simplest: the subject. This book is not, believe it or not, about me—Well, it is in a way, I suppose, but it has more to do with one Lucas Brown, a great friend of mine and, coincidentally, a werewolf. I myself am a vampire of considerable power and pedigree, and it is this unusual union that led me to write.

As to the scope, this story relies heavily on the events that happened the spring of his twenty-first year, the events that would shape the rest of Luke and my life.

The aim is still unclear to me. Do I mean to instruct or entertain? Or do I write simply to chronicle a time in my life that was particularly puzzling to me and in so doing discover the answers I seek? Perhaps I mean it as an apology and tribute to a friend I'm beginning to think I never knew. Perhaps I ought to let you decide.

As for the title, well, blame that on my editor.

* * *

><p>Disclaimer: The characters Malakai F.B. Ross and Lucas X. Brown are the sole property of eclecticlibra. The author in no way owns or wishes to own the characters or work of Stephenie Meyer's <em>Twilight<em> series.


	2. vi Principle Dates

**vi Principle Dates**

1809 I, Malakai Fyodor Benjamin Ross, am born to wealthy parents in Surrey.

1821 Age 12: family moves to London; meet future love of my life Clara Green, age 8.

1835 Following the death of my mother, I lose my humanity to a tall dark stranger in a pub and join the ranks of the Undead.

1840 I meet a vampire who likes to play doctor. Meanwhile, Clara Green marries another man.

1860 The doctor leaves me for America.

1894 I make a new friend—

1899 Who also leaves.

1900-20_ I spend most of the next century traveling and doing general vampire things. Including, but not limited to, growing Ross Industries into an international advocate for smart and sustainable business practices.

1980 Lucas Xavier Brown is born in Carlisle, England.

1983 Rachel Kelly, the fourth greatest love of my life, is born in Boston, Massachusetts.

1985 Our story begins.


	3. Chapter 1

**Chapter 1**

It was getting dark. The sun had dipped low behind the treeline, throwing tangled shadows over the cracked asphalt as my Bentley and I tore through the tranquil English countryside. It was nearing the end of Spring. I was glad to see it go. Spring is my least favorite time of year; all the trees fully cloaked in sturdy new leaves even as their blooms die—a marvelous reminder of just how unnatural my existence is. You see, through a loophole in the Natural Law, vampires exist. Exist and never die. And because there is no death, like that of a tree's blossoms, there can be no new life, no new leaves. Vampires are immortal and, therefore, stagnant. The same forever. Not dead, but not quite alive either.

It was for precisely this morbid fact that I was so far from home that particular evening. I'd had a searing revelation on the eve of my one hundred fiftieth year: my life meant jack shit. What was the point? I thought. What was the goddamn point of any of it?

To this day I don't know why I took that particular exit, why I turned left instead of right, why I chose that particular moment to slam my car into that particular tree.

I wanted to know what it felt like, I suppose, to fly through a windshield.

It was . . . strangely liberating.

I felt the Bentley leave the ground beneath us, the sense of weightlessness as we sailed through the air, the gnarled trunk of an ancient tree hurtling toward us at an alarming rate, thrusting into the windshield just as I was thrust out. It shattered effortlessly, the windshield, glittering around me like a million tiny snowflakes, tinkling across the mangled hood like Winter's first snow.

The next thing I knew I was on the ground, coughing up glass and feeling as though I should be dead. But, of course, I knew I wouldn't be. Immortality wasn't so easy to shake. 

I was sprawled on the decaying forest floor, writhing in silent agony as the bones I'd broken and organs I'd ruptured repaired themselves. Gashes closed, blood clotted, and cuts sealed, popping out of existence the instant they appeared. The whole ordeal lasted no more than a few seconds.

I'm not sure at what point I started laughing or what exactly I found so amusing, but suddenly I couldn't stop. I laughed as I rolled onto my hands and knees, giggled as I go to my feet, snickered as I surveyed the damage sustained by the Bentley.

Then, just as suddenly, I stopped.

My ears pricked.

"Hello?" I called out stupidly.

I scanned my immediate surroundings, my preternatural eyes piercing the darkness with ease. There was the unmistakeable smell of human blood. Hoping for a wounded hiker, I turned toward it, hardly making a sound as my feet carried me silently over last year's leaves. Alas, there was no wounded hiker. Instead, I came across a child. A boy lay curled around himself among the underbrush, crying. He'd scraped his knee—which explained the smell of blood.

I suppressed a groan and stopped short. I disliked children.

Standing stock still not ten meters from him, I weighed my options. He hadn't yet noticed me. I could slip off with him none the wiser, pretend I'd never seen him, go on with my miserable life while he would most certainly be eaten by rabbits. It wouldn't bother my conscience one bit. And yet . . . I remained rooted where I was.

It was my sentimentality, an unforeseen side-effect from my recent grapple with death, that moved me to speak.

"All right, kid?"

The boy started, looked round frantically until his large dark eyes—the color of coal, a moonless night, or licorice—found me. He looked petrified, his round face as pale as his white-blond hair, lip trembling. He looked about five.

"What are you doing out here all alone?" I tried again, hoping my tone was non-threatening and friendly. I felt very silly and yet couldn't shut up. "Are you lost?"

He rubbed the tears from his licorice eyes, stopped trembling, and wouldn't speak.

Could five-year-olds speak? I asked myself. My experience with young children was limited, but I seemed to recall entertaining the three-year-old niece of an old fling once while we waited for the train. She had certainly been very chatty—nothing easily recognizable as English, granted, but speech nonetheless. This boy said nothing.

Maybe he's mute, I thought. But that seemed rather unlikely. And then I flashed back to that afternoon in the park: A preschooler strayed across my path and started ranting about Stripes—which I came to understand was his stuffed tiger—and how, moments later, a harried-looking woman in her thirties came swooping down on us, scooped him up and carried him off, crying "How many times have I told you, we don't talk to strangers!"

I heaved a sigh. I had no other choice; I was too far in to back out now. I knelt beside him, extended my hand, and wondered if this could actually work.

"How d'you do," I said. "I'm Ben." It was only a half lie, really. Ben was my middle name—one of them, anyway—and it was less conspicuous than Malakai. How many devilishly handsome men are there named Malakai? One. There are probably at least two devilishly handsome Bens roaming around. "What's your name?"

He looked at my hand a long time. So long, in fact, that I thought he meant to refuse my offer of friendship. Just as I was about to withdraw, he clasped the ends of my fingers and shook them meekly.

"Lucas," he said in a voice so small I nearly missed it.

I smiled somewhat incredulously. Was that really all it took?

"It's nice to meet to you, Lucas," I said, taking back my hand. "Tell me, what are you doing out here all alone?"

"Playing hide-and-go-seek."

"By yourself?"

He shook his head. "No. Simon was supposed to find us. He's not very good. I fell asleep and when I woke up it was dark."

"So you win by default," I said encouragingly. "Do your parents know you're here?"

He shook his head.

"Would you like to go home?"

He nodded.

I got to my feet. "Well, how about I take you home then? D'you know where you live?"

"The brick house with the yellow door," he said and recited an address.

We set off, stumbling along through the lightless wood at a human pace—a human _child's_ pace, mind. He took my hand without me offering it and proceeded to tell me all about his house and his family and the garden they kept and the chicken that chased him when he tried to pick tomatoes with Mummy.

Strange creatures, children. They're no good at conversation. He talked ceaselessly of himself, his school, his friends, his favorite ice cream (pistachio), never asking me for mine (Rocky Road), never acknowledging I might exist for a purpose beyond a pair of ears to listen to his tales, never thinking I might have my own stories to share. And yet, despite the egocentricity and bad syntax, I found myself falling a little in love with him. Perhaps that's not quite the right turn of phrase. I was entranced by his enthusiasm, his lisping voice, and stumbling gait. I thought it wildly adorable the way he couldn't quite pronounce certain words. Like "catsup." "On Sundays," he was telling me, "Mummy makes us eggs. I like mine with kissup."

It was all I could do not to laugh.

And then, I was suddenly keenly aware of the pressure of his hand around my fingers, the warmth and thrum of blood long absent from my own. Then, as I knew would happen, a trickle of paternal affection began to steal over me. This wasn't unusual; I tended to feel such toward all children—which is why I disliked them so. You see, during my life—my living life—I never had the opportunity to produce children of my own, having never wed. I came close once; I was madly in love with the girl next door, and she with me, but as oft happens when two people love each other it all went wrong in the end. And our love went very, very wrong indeed. I died. She married someone else. She bore her husband many children, naturally, children that would have been mine had I not met that particular gentleman that particular night . . . Now any child I come into contact with becomes _my_ child. The one I never had. My psychiatrist believes it to be a classic case of displacement. Or projection. I can never remember which.

"How old are you?" I asked when he paused to draw breath.

"Almost five," he said, (as I had suspected) obviously proud of this accomplishment. "How old are _you_?"

I debated telling him the truth. What could it hurt? He wouldn't believe me. "One hundred and fifty."

He laughed, that terrible high-pitched shriek all children inherit. "That's silly," he said.

"I do try," I replied hazily, looking for a new topic. "Have you any brothers or sisters?"

He nodded enthusiastically. "Sam. He's two."

"Ah, so you're the eldest. I had an older sister, you know. She died before I was born." I trailed off. I had no idea why I was telling him this. He hadn't asked, nor was he likely to remember.

We came to a wide gurgling stream.

"Me and Tyler and Simon and them catch frogs here," he said.

I supposed that meant we were headed in the right direction. "Well," I said, surveying the stream. It wasn't very wide or very deep. "Well," I said again, "no sense in both of us getting our feet wet." I scooped him up into my arms, and wondered as I waded through the shallow water if the feel of his arms around my neck was worth the pair of Italian leather shoes I had just ruined. Yes, I answered myself, probably.

He didn't let go when he reached the other side. It was just as well; we'd hardly gone another ten steps before he was fast asleep.

Little kids.

So strange.

It wasn't long, thank God, before the forest thinned, the moon came out, and I found myself strolling along a quaint tree-lined street sprinkled with quaint little cottages with quaint picket fences guarding quaint vegetable gardens. I was in awe, convinced places like this only existed on postcards. Or Sweden. Certainly not—

But then I saw it.

A brick house with a yellow door, just as he said.

There was a tall blond woman pacing the porch as we approached.

"Lucas!" she shouted in relief when she saw us.

The boy jolted awake in my arms, cried "Mummy!" and all but flew into his mother's waiting embrace. There was much cooing and crying; Luke hanging round her neck, she clinging to him.

In her happy hysteria she started saying several things at once: "Wherever did you find him—Howard! Luke's home!—I don't know how to thank—Howard!—We were so worried—Just got off the phone—Howard!—phone with the police."

Luke, having had his fill of his mother's affections, wriggled futilely in her grip. "I'm fine, Mummy. Lemme go." He wriggled and writhed until, finally, she released him.

He looked up at me.

I looked down at him, feeling severely out of place.

"I don't know how to thank you," his mother said again, her voice brimming with emotion.

"Not at all," I said, not knowing what else to say.

She smiled warmly. "Wherever did you find him?"

I stared blankly at her for a moment, wondering how you told a stranger, a mother, that you happened upon their son after purposefully running your car into a tree?

"I . . . blew a tire. . ."

"I fell asleep," Luke piped up helpfully, "playing hide-and-go-seek with Simon and them."

". . . just up the road a bit. I suppose it was lucky; he was just on the other side of the field." I pointed in the direction we'd come.

"I fell asleep," he said again, as if this explained everything. And then— "Daddy!"

I looked up to see a tall and serious-looking man standing on the porch step.

Thirty years from now Luke would look just like him. The same hair, same dark piercing eyes, the same serious mouth. If Luke only knew how often he looked at me the way his father looked at him now—hands in his pockets, hair perfectly disheveled, that same strange mix of amusement and anger in his frown.

Almost-five-year-old Luke dashed up the porch steps, his arms flung wide for a hug that never came. Instead, his father rumpled his hair, looked seriously at him and said "Your mother has been worried sick."

He stepped from the porch and I realized too late that he meant to shake hands with me.

"Thank you," he said without much feeling behind the words, though somehow I knew he meant them.

Luke was suddenly there grinning up at me again.

"It was no trouble, I assure you," I said, eying him warily. I didn't much care for this man. He reminded me a little too much of my father, Luke a little too much of myself at that age.

"Well," said the man, releasing my hand at long last. "I suppose I ought to call George, have him cancel the search."

I thought this would be the perfect time to slip away, but Luke was too quick.

He seized upon my newly freed hand. "Come see my room!"

And suddenly I was being escorted across the threshold by a very determined almost-five-year-old.

His room was up a creaky flight of stairs next to the linen closet. He showed me his train set, the tracks running from every corner, crisscrossing every which way like Kings Cross Station. His mother supervised from the doorway. I tried to linger there with her, making amiable small-talk and formally introducing myself at last, but Luke quickly ended it with orders of "Sit here. Watch."

So I sat there and watched.

I kept wishing his mother might speak up, say something like "Now, Lucas, leave the nice vampire alone. Don't make him regret rescuing you."

Of course, she said no such thing. She hovered on the fringe of the room a moment longer, smiling down on us like we were the single most adorable thing she had ever seen. At long last she asked if I fancied a cup of tea.

"Thank you," I said, standing abruptly (much to Luke's dismay) and made some excuse about calling a tow truck.

She nodded and I was shown to the kitchen, where I learned that Howard (that was the father's name) had already called a tow and it was due to arrive in half an hour. The only thing left to do was sit and wait while Helen (the mother) made tea. She made sure I was seated comfortably at the dining room table, a serviceable if not worn slab of wood littered with last year's tax forms, before slipping off to put the kettle on. To this day I don't know why I didn't refuse their invitation and simply leave. It'd have saved me a world of trouble. Harold had just opened his mouth to speak to me, just clasped his hand around the back of another chair, when the phone rang.

And once again Luke and I were alone. I feared what I might do if this was allowed to continue. Divulge the rest of my intimate secrets, no doubt.

He hovered in the kitchen doorway, watching me and listening for his mother.

I made a face at him. I seemed the appropriate thing to do.

He shrieked with delight and threw one back. And I knew at once that I had done the wrong thing for he suddenly bounded across the room and clambered into my lap—right as his mother appeared with the tea things.

"Lucas," she warned.

Luke froze, his hand inches from my crotch, his knee jammed into my thigh.

"He's all right," I said quickly, whisking him onto my lap before he could move another finger. "I don't mind."

She smiled at us, set a steaming mug before me and muttered something about milk for Luke before slinking off into the kitchen again.

Luke, meanwhile, chattered nonsensically about the goldfish named Pete he had flushed last summer, the time at the park with the pigeon, and the stray cat Simon liked to throw rocks at. I hmmed and awed at the appropriate places, secretly counting down the seconds until his parents rejoined us.

They were civil, polite, and hopelessly bourgeois. His mother was kind and friendly, his father attentive if not a little distant. In short, decent, respectable, well-equipped, and well-qualified to look after Luke. It was a tad disappointing. If only he had had a drunk mother or an abusive father, I would have no qualms whisking Luke away with me. But not from such capable hands. The telephone rang again and his father excused himself to answer it. Helen let out a soft sigh, pressed her palm to her cheek, and closed her eyes, content to let the conversation break. Luke was still sitting on my lap, humming tunelessly to himself. Despite the hour, he seemed wide awake.

To amuse myself until his father returned to resume our discussion on consumer spending trends in Asia, I started a little game: mimicking Luke.

If he set his elbow on the table, I dropped mine next to his.

If he sighed, I sighed.

It didn't take him long to catch on.

He cackled with laughter, startling his mother awake, tipped his head back against my chest and looked up at me.

"That's silly," he said.

I looked down at him. "You're silly," I retorted.

My tow arrived shortly after and a round of goodbyes and thank yous ensued. Followed by a hug from Luke, handshakes, another hug from Luke, an invitation to stop by if I was ever in the area again, a final thanks.

And that was the end of it.


	4. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

He was only a boy, I told myself. A great, blundering, hapless boy who just happened to be stalking me. I could not escape him:

London when he was eleven. (On holiday with his family.)

Paris at fifteen. (A guest on another's holiday.)

Rome at eighteen. (Alone at the Pantheon, looking quite lost.)

And now Oxford. A beautiful English town. Filled with beautiful parks, beautiful architecture, and—most importantly—beautiful women. I was with such a creature that fateful Spring morning. She was a former student of Melvin Hughes, History Professor and old friend. (In fact, he was the one who introduced us the last time I was in town. She'd been keen on me from the start, I knew, but I'd found her too boring to shag. She was gorgeous, don't get me wrong, just utterly uninteresting. I don't know what made me change my mind this time. I was bored, I guess.)

I had been tricked, after spending the night in her matchbox apartment, into helping her with her "research"—which mostly involved snogging me behind different buildings on campus. I really wasn't one to complain, I suppose, but it was wearing on me; I had had other plans. Finally I convinced her to give me a tour of the library. With exams so close it was bound to be packed. And the more people around the less likely it was she would molest me. She showed me around, clinging to my arm and talking in an undertone, disclosing intimate secrets about the unsuspecting students. "That's Risley," she hissed, pointing to a freckly youth in too-small trousers. "He's . . ."

But I didn't hear what Risley was. My eyes had drifted across the room and snagged on someone quite unexpected. He was two feet taller and a great deal more hairy, but it was him. Lucas. It had to be.

"What's wrong?" she asked, for I had stopped dead in my tracks.

I stopped gaping long enough to respond. "Nothing. Thought I saw someone. Never mind."

She found this an acceptable answer and carried on with the tour. I scarcely heard a word, my mind too preoccupied fantasizing about how I might introduce myself. I thought of pretending to mistake him for someone else—but in each scenario he proved indignant and annoyed and I was forced to slink off looking like an ass. Then I thought of the classic "Don't I know you from somewhere?" Or pretending we'd met at a party and it was _he_ who forgot _me._ But what if he didn't go to parties? Maybe, I thought, getting desperate, I could ask for his help. But to do what? Find a book? They had librarians for that. My dog? I didn't have a dog. And even if I did it wouldn't be allowed in the library. Or perhaps if I stood staring at him long enough . . .

"Ben?"

My thoughts snapped back to reality. I looked down at my escort. She looked up at me with a mix of concern and that look women wear so well: disappointment. Clearly she'd been talking while I'd indulged in my daydreams. "I'm sorry, love," I said to . . . what was her name? Mary? "I've just remembered I've an engagement in town . . ." I pretended to check my watch. ". . . ten minutes ago."

"But you promised!" she whined.

"And I'm awfully sorry about that. Listen, if I'm still in town tomorrow I'll give you a ring and we'll get lunch or a drink or something," I lied to appease her. I kissed her cheek hurriedly before she could protest and dashed out of there as quickly as I dared. I waited a bit for her to leave then slipped in a side entrance.

His silver-blond hair was the same as I remembered, though there was more of it on his arms, the shadow of it on his chin. Time had been exceptionally good to him. But by god had he grown! He was—there was no other word for it—_perfect._ The smooth skin, the well-defined arms beneath his thin sweater, the charming barely-there dimple when he frowned. His eyes, the color of a moonless winter night, had the same spell over me as they had on our first encounter.

I wasn't one to believe in Fate. But this . . . this was too much. It was more than mere coincidence. It had to be. Dammit! I _would_ introduce myself! Force him to like me if I must, but we _would_ be friends! I determined to stand for nothing less.

What was I to do? Approaching him was out of the question; he seemed a sacred thing. But something had to be done. One cannot expect too many chances from the Universe. I had had four already. Suppose I never got another.

Hiding between the shelves of World War II biographies, I glared darkly at the back of his in-need-of-a-trim blond head._Turn around. Turn around. Notice me!_ I thought at him angrily, but to no avail. My target was absorbed in his reading, oblivious of my presence mere feet behind him.

Why was it so damn difficult to walk up to someone and introduce yourself?

Hi. I'm Malakai. I saved your life fifteen years ago. The reason I don't look any older is because I'm a vampire.

Ah. Right. That's why.

It occurred to me that I was making this more complicated than it needed to be. Just go over and introduce yourself, I berated myself. What could be more simple? But for some reason it wasn't.

Suddenly and unexpectedly, Luke slapped his book shut, shoved his things in his bag and pushed back his chair, as if he meant to get up and leave. I panicked. He had yet to turn around but he would and he would see me and I knew—though I didn't know how I knew or why I thought it at all—I couldn't let that happen. I turned on my heel and fled—tried to, at least—I'd forgotten about the book trolly. Too shocked to catch myself, we collided and went tumbling down together. It made a horrible racket.

As if on cue, Luke appeared above my head. "All right, mate?" Momentarily back-lit by the harsh library bulbs, he looked like an angel, a faint halo glowing around his head, and I thought Surely there is a God. He extended his hand. I allowed him to hoist me up.

My brain told me to say something but my mouth wouldn't move. A wise decision. Whatever I might have said . . . I shuddered to think.

He didn't notice. He had moved his attention to the books littering the aisle. I scrambled to help him.

"I'm sorry," I said, my eyes fixed firmly on Hitler's face and his silly mustache as I stuffed _Mein Kampf_ upside down on the trolly.

"History?"

I blinked at him. "Sorry?"

"Your major." He gestured to the books around us. "History?"

"Oh." I looked at them critically, weighed my answer. "No, I only chose this section because it was close to you" seemed too honest. "Yes" would only lead to more lies.

"I'm not a student. Not anymore," I added hastily. "I'm visiting a friend; Professor Hughes."

"I'm on my way there now," he said, rather impressed with this coincidence. "How do you know him?"

I didn't answer his question.

Somehow we ended up walking out of the library together. I was too thrilled—elated—stunned—pleased—nervous—excited—what have you—to speak. It was absurd. How was it a twenty-year-old _boy_ could leave me tongue-tied? He couldn't. _Shouldn't. _ I wanted him to like me—which was unusual in and of itself. I rarely cared or paid attention to whether people liked me or not. (They usually did so it didn't matter.) That this young man with no power, no money made me second-guess myself was absurd! I had an easier time picking up strange women. Perhaps that was the problem. Perhaps because I was only ever interested in shallow, surface relationships with the women I shagged, when I was finally faced with an individual whom I had minimal sexual interest in but rather sought something more, something better, I had no idea how to do it.

I almost fainted with relief when he broke the mounting silence.

"What year were you?"

"Year? Oh, what year did I graduate, you mean. I didn't. I only studied a semester. My father gambled away the rest of my funds," I explained.

"Bullocks," he said emphatically.

I shrugged. "And you?"

He didn't answer. I looked and saw he was no longer beside me. He had stopped in front of a portrait. One of those pictures with a plaque below commending how the person above did something for the school—like give it lots of money fifty years ago.

Luke glanced back at me, wide-eyed, as I strolled to his side. I knew whose portrait he was gaping at. Mine. It even had my name on it.

_Malakai Ross. _Followed by all the great things I'd done for the school.

"I knew you looked familiar," Luke said. "I walk by here ever morning."

"Ah, yes," I said calmly. "I forget they still have this. Terrible picture. Doesn't look a thing like me."

"Are you related?" he asked, not daring to think of another possibility.

"Only on my mother's side." I hoped that was the end of his questions. Any more and I would have to start lying. And I didn't think I could do that.

Instead, he changed the subject and asked a second time how I knew the professor.

I let out a low laugh. "I really shouldn't say."

He quirked an eyebrow, a truly endearing expression. I knew what question he was going to ask next, but didn't know how I would answer—because surely I would. Surely I couldn't keep my secrets secret from him for long.

Just then the classroom burst open and the noise of chattering students killed his chance. We both turned expectantly, waiting for the classroom to empty. Professor Hughes shambled out last, obviously in a hurry to get to the staff room. A tiny but sprightly man in his seventies, he carried an ancient lambskin briefcase and wore thick, perfectly round tortoiseshell specs that always slipped down his nose. Which is perhaps why, when he looked toward us, he had to push them up the bridge of his nose and look again.

"Ross!" he boomed, my name echoing around the hall like a gunshot. Several of the retreating students paused to see what all the fuss was about. "The devil are you doing here!" he demanded. His questions tended to sound more like accusations than questions—partly because he never waited for an answer. "Ah," he rushed on just as I was opening my mouth to tell him exactly what the devil I was doing here. "I see you two have met finally."

He pointed his index finger at each of us with a flourish that seemed to suggest he approved of this.

"Sir?" Luke said, looking as confused as I.

"This is the man I've been telling you about!" Hughes said with another grand gesture.

Before I could ask what he meant by that, he suddenly realized we were still standing in the corridor and yelled at us to come into his office. "What are we standing out here for!"

We were shouted into lumpy leather armchairs, very calmly served tea (though I couldn't tell you where the hot water came from) and barked at to take milk and sugar. When he was comfortably seated on the edge of his desk he resumed speaking in an only slightly raised voice.

"So sorry, old chap," he said to me. "We've just started the Falkland Wars and I've been using our old stories to keep their interest."

I raised my cup to him obligingly. "Never a dull moment when I'm around."

We shared a private laugh, leaving Luke looking as lost as ever.

He set down his tea. "Sorry. I'm afraid I don't understand. Wasn't that over twenty years ago? How can—?"

"He's older than he looks," Hughes grunted, throwing me a look.

We both burst out laughing again.

"So," said Hughes when we had recovered, his breathing a little labored. "Mr. Malakai Ross, this is Lucas Brown, a prized student of mine. Mr. Ross's, er, family has donated a great deal to the University over the years," Hughes explained, though Luke already knew that.

"Please, Melvin, you're making me blush."

"Did you want something, Brown?" Hughes barked, as though it had just occurred to him that a student might be making more than a social call.

Luke looked uncomfortable, probably thinking his reason for coming was silly now that I was here, now that the three of us were having tea.

"Actually, I should be going," I said, gulping the rest of my tea and setting the empty cup on his desk with a clatter. "Disgusting tea as usual, Melvin. I don't know how you manage it."

"I have quite perfected the art, I dare say. But you must buy me a drink before you leave. It has been too long."

I stood up, making a show of straightening my tie and jacket in an attempt to delay my departure, for now that I was leaving I didn't want to. I tipped my head. "It would be an honor."

"Brown, you must join us! It will be an evening to remember!"

Luke looked thoroughly taken aback. I could almost see the cogs working in his head, thinking, perhaps, Hughes was only offering to be polite and he should decline. But he knew Hughes was never polite and his invitations were not to be refused. He looked to me for some kind of validation.

I wasn't sure I wanted him there but, not wanting to be rude, I said "It makes no difference to me."

We agreed on the "usual time and place" and I took my leave.


	5. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3**

I arrived first, as was tradition. We could have gone to any number of pubs, but Hughes liked this one for their fish and chips or something, so we always came here. It was as nondescript as I remembered. A little more wear and tear, a little rougher around the edges, maybe, but as warm and familiar as ever.

To pass the time while I waited for Hughes, I decided to have some fun with the barmaid, a pretty young creature with dark hair and dark eyes. I guessed she was still in University; she didn't look much older than the crowd she was serving. Currently, she was at the other end of the bar (a surly older gentleman was attending to my scotch) but I knew it was only a matter of time before she wandered my way again. Just as she was reaching for a bottle of gin I cast my bait.

"Hello," I said brightly.

She arched an eyebrow at me. "Hi," she returned in a flat, toneless sort of way. Clearly she'd heard that pick-up line before. It looked like I was going to have to try a little harder.

"Come here often?"

She stopped, turned, studied me. "Are you serious?"

"Quite," I replied with a smile. "I only ask because I don't think I remember seeing you the last time I was here."

"And when I was that?" She stuck a lazy hand on her hip, her other patrons forgotten for the moment.

"Nineteen ninety-five, I think."

"A regular patron, I see." She was smiling a little. I took it as a good sign.

I grinned back, reached over the bar and extended my hand. "Malakai Ross."

She took it briefly. "Bridget."

"Cheers."

"Get you another?"

I assumed she meant drink and not handshake. "Please," I said, and had fun making flirtatious eye contact with her as she poured. "You're seeing someone, aren't you?"

"What makes you say that?"

"You have that look."

"And what look is that? Uninterested?"

"No. Pretty."

She flushed pleasantly and went away smiling. I watched absently as she filled orders and flirted harmlessly with the other young men. She glanced back at me once; I hoisted my empty glass to her in response.

"If I didn't know any better," she said when she caught a free moment to pour me another, "I'd think you were doing this on purpose."

"Drinking, you mean? No. I'm meeting a friend. And another chap."

"Third glass you've had in five minutes," she observed.

"Well, next time just leave me the bottle."

And, miraculously, she did.

"What, no phone number?"

And, miraculously, she left that, too.

I sat at the bar, quite alone after that, giving my nerves a chance to catch up to me. I half-hoped Luke would change his mind.

He didn't.

I saw him enter the pub out of the corner of my eye and though I could easily have turned and saved him the trouble of looking about like a frightened puppy, I didn't. It would have seemed like I was waiting for him. And I didn't want it to seem like I was doing anything.

"Am I early?" he asked uncertainly as he slid onto the stool beside me.

I pushed back my sleeve to check my watch—only to find I wasn't wearing it. "Hard to say," I said.

And, believe it or not, my horrible joke broke the tension (though I think it was more of a pity laugh than anything else) and we slipped easily enough into conversation.

Ten minutes passed.

No Hughes.

Twenty minutes.

"Is he usually this late?" Luke asked when forty minutes had passed and there was still no sign of him.

I shook my head. "Never," I said and finished off the last of the bottle of scotch Bridget had left me. "I think we've been stood up."

Luke looked into the bottom of his second beer.

"D'you s'pose something's happened?"

I stopped in the middle of flagging down the barmaid, (I'd run out of scotch) thought seriously about this for a moment and said: "It's possible. Old git's in his nineties, after all—or is it seventies? . . . I'm sure—no, he wouldn't purposefully _not_ come. Poor bastard probably fell asleep."

We entertained ourselves for a few minutes by imagining increasingly bizarre reasons for his continued absence. Scoring papers became setting fire to the staff room became alien abduction became . . . something to do with Elvis.

Neither of us thought anything of it when an ambulance screamed past around eleven-thirty.

Luke turned to glance at it, then asked in a too-casual tone if he could ask me a personal question.

"I'm not gay," I said before he could ask.

"What? Oh. No. That wasn't—Although I did sort of wonder if maybe that's how you knew the professor . . ." He trailed off uncomfortably.

Before I could change the subject, a young man, an orderly judging by his uniform, informed us that Professor Hughes would not be joining us this evening as he had just been admitted to Churchill following a tumble down a flight of stairs. He wasn't seriously injured, we were told, and he didn't want to see us. We saw him anyway until and stayed until his attending kicked us out.

It was nearly one, but the night was fine and the college close so we ignored the taxi and set back on foot.

The silence thickened as we walked. I assumed Luke held his tongue because he thought I might like time to reflect privately on Hughes's horrible accident. (The few times I glanced at him, he certainly looked like he wanted to say something.) In reality I kept my mouth shut for fear of what I might say if I opened it; it was getting harder and harder not to say things like "You probably don't remember, but I found you in the wood when you were four." or "How did you like Paris? I saw you at the cafe."

"Listen," he finally said when we were at last in sight of my car. "I don't know what your plans are now that the Professor's. . ." he trailed off. "Anyway, this Thursday some of my mates and I are going out before the Easter Holiday—"

"That's kind of you, thanks, I might."

Then I got in my car and left.

Hughes was released from the hospital the following morning, having nothing more serious than a minor concussion and a bruised hip. I had become somehow assumed the role of his assistant, running his errands and fetching him tea. I sort of enjoyed it, taking orders rather than giving them for a change. I almost always ran into Luke on these excursions. So often, in fact, that I was beginning to think Hughes was doing it on purpose. My suspicion was confirmed on Thursday when Luke next had his class. He didn't send me anywhere, insisting I stay and write his notes on the chalkboard because his "hip was sore." The bastard.

Luke was sitting on the right-hand side of the lecture hall about half-way up next to a stunning brunette who was very keen on catching his eye. Which I thought rather odd, as every other pair of female eyes—and most of the male—were fixed on me.

Eventually the bell rang.

Luke took his time packing his things, as did the brunette. She even went so far as to "forget" her pen when she was nearly to the door just to walk back and ask Luke if he'd—oh, there it was. Cue the giggle.

She couldn't possibly been more obvious, but Luke . . . Jesus he was thick.

I leaned against the chalkboard, probably getting chalk dust all over the back of my sweater, and watched the two of them descend the steps together.

The girl paused to ask Hughes, who was sitting smugly in his plush chair watching the same thing I was, about . . . whatever, to stall for time, thus turning her back to me.

Luke, the idiot, was headed right toward me.

"You do realize," I said before he could say hello, "that girl has been eying you all period."

"Who, Sarah?" he asked as if he didn't believe me.

"Why don't you invite her to join us?"

He shot her a skeptical sideways glance. "Would she want to?"

"Who cares!" I whispered frantically. "You'll miss your chance!"

Sarah had indeed run out of stall tactics and was turning to go.

I gave him an encouraging nudge.

He looked panicked for a moment but hid it well just as he caught up to her at the door.

"Er, Sarah . . ."

"Oh, hullo, Luke," she said as though she hadn't seen him there.

"I've been meaning to ask . . . That is, some friends and I are having drinks tonight. Would you like to join us?"

She smiled, but otherwise hid her glee of being asked out by the man of her dreams. "Sure."

"Nicely done," I said, coming over and clapping a hand on his shoulder when she had gone. "Shame I'll have to miss it."

"You aren't coming?"

I shook my head. I'd decided, spur of the moment, that it would be a horrible mistake to turn up tonight.

But I did.

I only wanted to check on him, make sure he wasn't wallowing in misery knowing I wouldn't come. And if he was, well, it would give me a reason to stay.

It was Hughes's fault. He said I should. Ever the budding psychologist, he was endlessly trying to interpret my behavior, shape it to the "complex oddity" that was my personality. He had cleverly deduced (because I'd told him) that I was lonely, and (also because I'd told him) that I was much taken with the young blond History student. Hughes went on to hypothesize that we were exactly what the other needed: Luke was sensible, virile, level-headed, and happy. I was apparently none of those things.

At first I dismissed his remarks, chalking them up to empty flattery, another attempt to make another social experiment out of me. I was determined not to let him. Yet here I was, pacing round the block while I mustered up the courage to make a choice: go in or go home.

It was perhaps the fifth or six time round that he appeared. A man, perhaps fifty, standing outside the pub looking in. He was of average height, but what he lacked in height he made up for in girth. I nearly walked right by him before I registered he had no pulse. I spun around, as did he, and at once I knew him.

"Franz! Good god, is that you?" I seized his hand, for he had offered it, and, bowing low, kissed it.

"Yes, yes, all right," he said in crisp German, sounding at once both pleased and annoyed.

I returned his hand to him and smiled politely.

Of all vampires to run into at a time like this, it had to be Franz Ferdinand. Not the band, mind, but the late Archduke and heir to the Austro-Hungarian throne whose (presumed) assassination in 1914 was the first in a chain of events that led to the Great War. Shot in the jugular in his motor car, he would have surely bled to death if it had not been for the quick action of a vacationing Frenchman, a vampire by the name of Jacques-something or other, who happened to be walking by at that moment.

"There's something different about you," I said, slipping into German out of courtesy. I looked him over; his colorless complexion, his colorless eyes, his colorless expression. "I know! You've trimmed your moustache!" He was, in fact, clean shaven. He was almost unrecognizable without his signature handlebar moustache.

"I didn't know you were in town," he said, ignoring my comment.

"Likewise," I replied. "What brings you to Oxford?"

"Passing through. I was just admiring the, ah, local cuisine." He tipped his head toward the window behind him.

"Anything strike your fancy?" I asked, thinking, Not Luke, anyone but him. But sure enough, it was. Of course it was.

"There is a blond," he said carelessly, pointing, "playing billiards with his companions."

"Ah, I was afraid of that."

"How do you mean?"

"He's spoken for."

A busted lip, a few bruised ribs, and a ten minutes later, I shambled into the pub.

"The hell happened to you?" Luke, slightly tipsy, yelped in way of greeting upon catching sight of me.

I let a smile cross my lips, said "You should see the other guy," and ordered a drink.

"You got into a fight?" his date, Sarah, also a little inebriated, asked in wide-eyed admiration.

"Beat the piss out of him, I hope," said a tall bespectacled man I didn't know.

I tipped my head as if to say Yes, yes I did, thank you. Then, drink in hand, I collared Luke, pool stick and all, and led him to a little table—the kind you stand and talk around—in full view of the front window. Franz was there, looking murderous. But I knew if I did the right things and Luke played along like a good sport, he would leave us in peace. Hopefully. I positioned us around the table so Luke had an easy view of him and set myself close to Luke, so it might look as though we were talking intimately, keeping my face hidden from Franz.

"It is very important that you do exactly as I say," I told him in a low voice.

"Something the matter?"

"There's a man standing outside, do you see him?"

Luke squinted. "He looks a little like—"

"I know," I said. Leave it to a History student to recognize the dead Archduke of Austria. "He's a former associate of mine. And I think he's taken a fancy to you."

"Sorry, what? Wait, is he the one who . . . ?" He gestured to my bruised face, which had to be close to healed by now. If I had had a proper meal in the last month it wouldn't have been an issue at all.

"Yes. And don't interrupt." I leaned closer to whisper the rest in his ear. "What I'm saying is, it would be damned decent of you if for the next few minutes you could pretend we're . . ." I didn't know how else to say it. ". . . _together_."

"But we're not." He made to draw away, but I took hold of his pool stick and drew him closer still. Why he never let go of it, I don't know.

"I know that. Just for a few minutes. Please? He'll leave."

His eyes flicked between Franz and me. "Can't you just tell him off?"

"I tried that. Didn't go over too well, did it?"

"Can't I just tell him thanks, but I'm not interested, then?"

"You think you'll have better luck at it than me? Be my guest."

He made a noise in the back of his throat. "When you say 'former associate' . . ."

I slung an arm loosely over his shoulders, directing him toward the toilets. "He did a job for me in Prague. I'm involved in some less-than-legal business from time to time and he's good at picking up the pieces."

"He kills people for you?" Luke exclaimed incredulously into the crowded loo.

I rolled my eyes in an exaggerated fashion; I was getting frustrated. "Who said anything about killing anyone? No. Don't be ridiculous."

"Then what do you—"

"Oh, never mind now. He's gone. Get back to your date already, will you."

* * *

><p>Happy December everyone! I hope you are enjoying the misadventures of Malakai Ross so far.<p>

I had this great idea to start a list of reasons why _The Affair_ is better than _Twilight_. Because you can't just say these things without backing them up. So,** Reason #1 How _The Affair _and _Twilight_ are Similar and What Makes _The Affair _Better:** Both Edward and Kai grieve for their lost humanity. Kai just has more fun doing it. **Reason #2:** There's a real plot. Promise!

Also: I'd love to hear from you! I always wonder if readers notice the same things about my characters that I do. And, if you haven't noticed yet, yes, Friday has become unofficial update day. Hopefully I can keep it up!


	6. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4**

"Luke, Jesus Christ, I said I was sorry. Please get in the car."

He shook his head and continued to walk defiantly down the sidewalk, staggering a little from the alcohol, and flicked me off.

"Dammit, Luke! Would you get in the damn car! _Please._"

I inched along beside him in my roadster, trying in vain to coax him inside. It wasn't quite two in the morning and the rain was coming down hard.

"No," he said, the first syllable he had spoken to me since we left the pub four blocks up.

I supposed he was mad I'd made a move on Sarah. (I tried to tell him it was in his best interest, that I was just trying to gauge how much she fancied him, but he didn't believe me. I didn't blame him.) After Franz left and we rejoined his group, I found myself standing next to Sarah. And then we were sitting side by side whispering to one another and at some unknown point her hand left my knee and Luke left the building. To be honest, I'd forgotten he was there—let alone sitting in the booth across from us.

"Lucas, darling, perhaps it's escaped your notice, but we're twenty blocks from your apartment. And it's raining. I cannot permit you to walk twenty blocks in the rain. You will catch pneumonia and die. And then where would I be? Besides stuck with your damn hospital bills."

"Piss off."

"Sorry? Can't hear you." This was untrue, but I hoped the ruse might tempted him closer.

It did.

He stopped.

I stopped.

He strayed toward the passenger window.

"I said—"

But I'd already reached across the seat and snatched a fistful of his soaked jacket and gave a swift yank. His head hit the top of the car with more force than I intended, but it left him dazed long enough for me to stuff him in the trunk and—

Ha.

I'm kidding.

But I did manage to get him seated and buckled—all without leaving my seat _and_ with only one hand. Which is saying something even for me.

He came to just as I was probing his pockets for his keys outside his walk-up. (His friend Charlie had given me his address.)

"That's the second time you've had your hands down my pants tonight, you know." He sounded faintly amused.

I rolled my eyes. He was alluding to the little incident at the pub after Franz sulked off. I'd made a blind grab at the billiard stick he held for me and—I don't think I need to explain what it was I grabbed instead. That was before the Sarah incident, of course.

"If you don't like it," I retorted, "don't leave your pants so close to my hands."

He leaned his head against my shoulder and laughed.

I let us into his apartment. He collapsed on his horrible musty sofa, mumbled "Stay if you want" and fell asleep.

I closed the door behind me and as I did it struck me that he might be rather impressionable, that it might be easy to—ah, but I didn't want that. Not really. And what if he should accept my advance? My admiration for him would surely be lessened then, altered at the very least. No. Why spoil a thing when I knew not yet what I wanted from him? Perhaps it was only his company I sought and I should leave his body out of it.

I sat on the end of the sofa (there was nowhere else) and contemplated him.

I liked him, surely. I wouldn't put up with this kind of abuse if I didn't. But more than that, Hughes was right. I really could use a friend like Luke. I felt—this is going to sound crazy—but I felt whole when I was with him. _Whole-er_, anyway. Almost like a piece of my soul, a piece I had lost, was returned to me. I had been convinced, from the first moment we met, that we were fated for each other, that we were destined to be friends. _Always._

Suddenly there was nothing I wanted more than to turn him and make him mine for ever. It would be only too easy; poor bloke was out cold, probably wouldn't remember a thing. I moved a little closer, loomed a little nearer his neck.

But something stopped me.

He was still so young, hardly a man at all. Could I really be responsible for ending his life? Here? Now?

Was I willing to take that risk again?

A century ago, out of loneliness and a misguided sense of philanthropy, I turned Thomas. He was thirty-two, recently married with a child on the way. And dying a slow and agonizing death.

One arctic evening in November near the end of the nineteenth century, I was perusing the market of a small English suburb for something to eat. I'd not had a decent meal in some months—not that I had lost my touch. I merely lacked the motivation. My last true friend had gone, left me for America, and I had finally come to terms with the fact that he wasn't coming back.

Too busy indulging in my misery, I paid little attention to the shivering townspeople milling about in the twilight—until one of them bumped into me.

"Oh my, I'm dreadfully sorry," said a small voice as I prepared to round on my attacker.

It was a woman of modest rank, modestly dressed in dark green wools precisely the color of her large doleful eyes, and—unless the bump under her coat was lying—pregnant. She wore no ring. My aggression melted instantly.

"N,no, but of course," I stammered, having never seen a pregnant woman up close before. "The fault was mine."

She smiled faintly, looking a little tired behind her eyes, and curtsied. A potato tumbled out of the tiny basket hooked in the crook of her arm.

"Allow me," I said without thinking, retrieving the spud and transplanting the basket from her arm to mine before she could say "Thank you."

"How kind," she said, her smile betraying the real depth of her gratitude.

"You are unaccompanied?" I inquired, feeling it unwise to let a woman as far along as she roam the streets alone after dark. Finding she was, I insisted on seeing the young lady home.

Flushed but pleased, she consented.

We walked to the end of the street and turned north toward the poorer district. She led me to a small but clean cottage and invited me in for tea—which I insisted on preparing despite her protests. I knew she was relieved to be off her feet the moment she sat down. The little house was warm and dry and very plainly furnished; no pictures hung on the walls, the furniture was very clearly second hand, and there was a thin layer of dust over everything. The kitchen—if you could call it that—was in one corner, a table and three mismatched chairs beside it. A fireplace sat freshly stoked on the opposite wall, a few old arm chairs crowded around it.

"Emily?" called a voice from the bedroom.

Emily jolted to her feet at once.

"Thomas!" she exclaimed in quiet surprise, for a frail-looking man had just hobbled into view. He leaned against the bedroom doorway, a cane gripped tightly in one hand. "Goodness," Emily went on, "I thought you were napping." She went to him but did not embrace him. Looking affectionately on him, she kissed his cheek gingerly, touched her hand to his."You look well today."

I thought perhaps I had misheard. The man looked far from well. In fact, he looked rather pale and sallow; his once dazzling amber eyes (for there was still a trace of the youth he had lost) were bloodshot and muddy, his brown hair was lank and overgrown, and he couldn't have weighed any more than my right arm.

He cleared his throat—a pitiful sound—and Emily started.

"Oh! Silly me, of course. Tom, this is Mr. Ross. We met at the market. He's lent himself to me for the day. Mr. Ross, my husband, Mr. Abbott."

I didn't realize I was staring until his voice, strained and hoarse, snapped me out of it:

"I don't do for formalities," he croaked, "Tom will do."

"Yes," I said hastily, clasping his hand while taking care not to crush it. "How d'you do. I didn't mean to intrude."

"No, don't mind me," he said as Emily helped him to the seat she had just vacated.

Emily recounted our meeting step for step, we finished tea, then she excuse herself for her afternoon nap.

"We had a housekeeper once," Tom confided in a low voice when she had gone. "In a proper house." He struck the table with his fist. I started and looked up to see his eyes brimming with tears. "And now we can hardly afford bread . . ."

I don't know what it is about me that makes people tell me their tragedies. And Tom's life had no shortage of tragedy. He had had a promising career as a broker, married his boss's daughter and took over the company when the old man died. It wasn't long after that that he fell ill. Fast forward two years and his disease, whatever it was, had reduced them to paupers. They'd spent everything on doctor's bills, Emily's ring included. I listened to every word, my heart wrenching at every heart-wrenching detail. And then I did the one thing I swore never do again: I got involved in a mortal's plight.

In the weeks that followed, I became something of a benefactor to them. I found a midwife to help Emily with the house as she continued to grow, a consult with the area's best physician for Tom (the diagnosis wasn't good, but he did prescribe something that seemed to lessen Tom's pain), and good food on the table every night. It was deceiving at first. Tom appeared to be getting better: his appetite returned, he could get out of bed most days, and once or twice felt well enough to venture out of the house.

But it was only the lull before the storm.

He got much worse at the turn of the New Year.

Dr. Wotton advised we prepare ourselves.

Later that same week, Tom sent for me. He looked terrible; any weight he had gained in the previous weeks was gone, leaving him as emaciated as ever. I knew what he would say, the speech he had rehearsed a hundred times. I didn't wait to hear it. I felt such a wave of pity for him that I spoke before I knew what I was saying. I told him he had a choice, there was a way to escape death. I told him what I was, how death could no longer touch me. "But I must warn you," I said, "there is no going back. Your life as you know it will be over, but you will be free. Free from sickness and human ailment, free from everything." I told him all I knew. I made sure he understood what he was giving up. His wife, his life with her, with his unborn child.

"My son . . ." he whispered.

I repeated again and again that he could never be with them, see them, write to them, ever hint that he might still live. I gave him the choice I never had. He could have said no. Any rational man—but Tom wasn't rational. Far from it. And I was far more convincing that I realized. I'd made him desperate, given him that last glimmer of hope, seduced him so thoroughly he never had a chance.

Emily remarried soon after. With no money to support a child (a boy, named after his newly departed father) she had to. It was a marriage of convenience if ever there was one. I think that's what tore Tom up the most. She was provided for but never loved—at least not to his satisfaction.

For five years he watched his son grow up without him. I tried time and again to distract him. I suggested Paris. Rome. Anywhere. But Tom would not leave, though it caused him great pain to stay. I oft reminded him had Mother Nature had her way, he wouldn't even be watching.

None of it mattered.

It was all my fault.

Then one day, without a word of goodbye to me, he was simply gone.

I don't know what hurt worse. Seeing him leave or knowing I'd brought him to it . . .

"What'reyoudoin'?" Luke mumbled sleepily.

I started out of my flashback.

"I . . ." I began, racking my brain. ". . . nothing," I finished lamely and drew away.

No, I thought, taking the life of a perfectly healthy (albeit inebriated) young man was unforgivable. It would be no better than what had been done to me. I thought I'd done Tom a favor. But Luke . . . Luke was . . . He had a future.

And it wasn't with me.

I opened my mouth to say something to him, but he was asleep again. I stood, knowing I couldn't stay, but not wanting to go. I straightened the furniture, threw out the spoiled milk and rotten apples sitting in the refrigerator, took out the garbage—anything to delay my imminent departure. I even thought of washing up the dishes currently growing mold in the sink, but decided against it. Instead, I tarried just long enough to attach a note to the bottle of Aspirin in the bathroom cupboard:

_Try to make it to at least __one__ class today_.

And on the juice carton in the refrigerator:

_Call me before you leave._ Followed by a number he could best reach me.

* * *

><p>I'm back again! I hope everyone had a wonderful week! Oh, and I hope everyone knows I'm just kidding about the whole "my story is better than Twilight" thing. I mean, I think it is, but then again, I'm the author. (haha) I'd really like to hear what you think! Is it worth getting to the end? Or should I quit while I'm ahead?<p> 


	7. Chapter 5

**Chapter 5**

Luke awoke at three in the afternoon with a pounding headache (as is to be expected after the amount of alcohol he had ingested the night before). He'd missed the only class he had on Fridays, but he didn't care; he was hungover and hungry. And while he flushed my note on the aspirin bottles, he didn't notice the other when raiding the refrigerator for breakfast. When he felt sufficiently un-hungover he packed his things into his tiny Austin Metro and left for home. This was around seven. By the time he got close to Carlisle, the moon was high and the stars were shining.

And then, just like that, he blew a tire.

Four young lycans were out for a moonlit stroll among Farmer Jackson's sheep in the neighboring field. They smelled me on him and, well, Luke was perhaps lucky they were so young. They'd never run across a vampire before and there was some confusion on how best to kill it. They ended up fighting each other more than him, though they still managed to tear him up pretty good. I've seen the aftermath of my fair share of attacks. They're not pretty. Entrails zigzagging all over the place, limbs gnawed to the bone, blood everywhere. Luke was lucky. Luckier still Farmer Jackson was still tinkering in his barn when he saw what he thought were the neighbor's dogs loose on his property again. Enough was enough, he told himself. He grabbed his shot gun and roared down the narrow lane on the back of of his John Deere. And the rest, as they say, is history.

They ferried him to Abbey Caldew Hospital, given a half-dozen units of blood, stitched up, and stoned out of his mind on pain killers. His parents arrived early the next morning; his father gray-haired and silent, his mother's face lined with worry and grief. When the orderly came to change his bandages he discovered the wounds were—as they always are—mysteriously healed. They kept him another night for observation, weened him off the drugs, and sent him home the next afternoon with a clean bill of health. He didn't remember a thing about "the accident," as everyone called it. He remembered packing his car to leave for the weekend, but the rest of the drive was a big black blank.

I never heard from him.

Had I not been in the middle of a merger, I would have left Chicago in a heartbeat and done . . . something. As it was, I didn't think twice, only called once and when I got his machine didn't think to leave a message. I assumed he'd already left for his parent's house for the holiday weekend like he'd told me he would. I might not have ventured back to Oxford for months, and not learned of his fate until much too late, had Hughes not switched our briefcases. (He claimed it was an accident, but I knew better. He wanted me back.)

Then I read the papers, saw the headlines. The words _animal__attack,__hospital,_and _missing_ burned in my mind for days after.

I tried to convince myself that it was one of those "at the wrong place at the wrong time" but really it was inevitable: Bad things happen to the people I let too close to me. Luke and I . . . we'd known each other all of a week and look where it got him.

I searched and searched and searched.

For months.

A year.

Every trail ended cold.

After nearly two years, I managed to track down the truth. A pack of werewolves had ambushed him, tore him apart and left him for dead. Now there were rumors circulating in the Underground, talk of a "white wolf," Crevan's new protege, the half-breed mutt they'd "rescued." A little something about Crevan: he was the only one of his litter to survive the first week. (The story goes that he, Crevan, slaughtered them—his brothers and sisters, mind—in their sleep in order to eliminate competition. I think it's much more likely that they caught some werewolf disease and he was just lucky.) And then, before he was a year old, his mother was accused and found guilty of sodomizing with a human and promptly dispatched. Crevan suffered much neglect and abuse from there on in and, well, now everyone wished they'd been a bit nicer to him. It didn't take long for him to become the most feared in all of the Underground. His rise to power wasn't all that different from Adolf Hitler's. The only real difference is that instead of Nazis, you have werewolves, and instead of persecuting Jews, the Theins were going after half-breeds.

It was as if the world had ended all over again.

Crevan and his pack, clan, what have you—the Theins—were one of the most blood-thirsty in lycan history. The Monarchy (for the lycans are ruled by a long line of "Royal" blood) spends half their time reining Crevan in and the other half cowering in fear. If Luke had truly been adopted by them, he was worse than dead.

As a rule half-blood and pure-blood werewolves don't get along. True werewolves are bred. I mean, a mommy and a daddy werewolf have to tolerate each other long enough to make new ones. I'm no expert on lycan history (honestly, there are too many books) but from what I gleaned from the few chapters I skimmed, werewolves were never human. They simply evolved to look like humans. God knows why. Being a dog the size of a black bear sounds a hell of a lot more fun. (There's still a great deal of debate over what they truly are, but I fancy they're a kind of alien life form, stranded here when the Earth was young, perhaps even before humans appeared.) Needless to say, many of their early encounters with humans were . . . well, they killed them all. Then someone (probably a shewolf) said something like "Hey, look, these guys are so weak and pathetic. It's no fun to eat them. Why not help them instead?" And for some reason they all thought this was a good idea. Thus was born the domestic dog. Or something. And they protected the young and fragile bipeds from alligators, saber tooth cats and—well, not fleas, but you get the idea.

Vampires entered the scene not long after. As the human population grew so did the number of vampires. And, let me tell you, we hated each other from the start. We reached our first tipping point at the height of the Sumatran civilization. A huge battle ensued: the lycans had to reveal their true nature in order to protect their humans, and the Sumatrans were so shocked they banished them from all good society. Being so well house-trained and obedient, they went forth and multiplied and turned vengeful against vampires because we'd dethroned them as man's best friend. And for the next zillion centuries it was a bunch of drama. Until their near extinction around 4000 B.C.E. Werewolves actually outnumbered humans at this time and we, god, we slaughtered them. Hundreds of thousands in one sweeping campaign. Europe, Asia, Africa, the Americas. At one point their numbers dropped below three hundred. (There has since been evidence that suggests disease played a large part, accounting for more than half of the casualties.) And just like that we weren't fighting anymore, but living co-mutually until the lycan population bounced back and we back to our old games of war and more war.

That's when they moved underground. The Underground is the vast network of tunnels, labyrinths, sewers, and subway channels under London proper that the wolves retreated to after the Massacre of 1578. Eddols House, the ruling family at the time, was very publicly assassinated in 1594 and in the chaos that followed, the O'Conchobhair (an Irish pack exiled in the fifteenth century for their inhumane treatment of humans, and an early predecessor of Crevan the Thein) seized control. For three hundred years they built an underground empire unmatched in the history of English wolves. And yes, it's just as medieval now as it was then. With the small exception that the Burchards now rule.

Luke once tried to describe the city to me, called Lykourgos, but his descriptive oratory skills are rather sub-par and I've been stuck imagining Gringotts (the bank run by Goblins in _Harry __Potter_) ever since. Same little roller coaster carts whirling around the catacombs, but instead of guarded vaults filled with gold, they're little cave huts full of werewolf puppies and dead cats. Luke has told me again and again it's nothing like that, but I just can't help it. The main thing to remember is: it's extensive, it's intimidating, and it's underground.

So where do half-breeds come into play?

Well, around 1000 BC the Prince Werewolf fell in love with some Arabian girl and, at some point down the road, bit her. On accident, mind. More like a love nip, really. And then at the next full moon there went the Arabian girl tearing up Arabian Town in her new wolf skin. And all the werewolves looked at each other and went "Wait, we can do that?" and turning humans became the latest fad. Until they all realized that humans make lousy wolves. They can't reproduce, they have only a fraction of the cool power—which they have no control over—and they only change at the full moon (no one could figure out why) and they can't even infect other humans. Half-breeds were outlawed in 400 AD and most were rounded up and "taken care of." The law was repealed in 1323 following three centuries of heavy losses (some vampire was killing them again) but most new half-breeds were shunned from the community and, as a result, didn't last long. Most were shot by farmers and hunters. More committed suicide. And the rest were deemed dangerous and disposed of by the lycan KGB.

Since 1860, segregation between half- and pure-blood wolves has been less rigid and, while half-breeds are not encouraged, they receive some rights and a full education so they won't be a "danger to society."

This was the world Luke was to enter more than a century later.

There was no hope for him, nothing I could do.

* * *

><p>It's almost Christmas! I hope you've all been good this year!<p> 


	8. Chapter 6

**Chapter 6**

I left England after that, hoping, I think, to leave my guilt with it. This was not to be. It followed me to Paris. Prague. Italy. Until it seemed to blanket the whole of Europe. So I left that too. I traveled east for a time, and when that didn't work I went south until I could go south no more.

Johannesburg, South Africa.

I'd been in the city a number of days, moping about in my rented rooms and warding off my grief with blood and chocolates, before my self-loathing drove me to the streets. I was out walking in a particular dusty part of the city on a particularly windy day thinking I might charter a plane and leave this place like I had all the others when, strutting toward me, came this _girl_. She was twenty-two but nevertheless, a girl. Canary yellow Converse under pale, shapely legs partially hidden beneath slouchy olive shorts, and a sheer white blouse you could almost—but not quite—see her pink bra through. Large pink sunglasses covered dazzling blue eyes and a floppy white hat hid her loose auburn curls. She was unexpected. She was different. She was, most importantly, alive. Alive in a way that seemed so real, so natural, so easy. I was mesmerized.

As we passed one another she made no acknowledgment of me. Not a smile, not a nod. Not even an averted gaze (although it was hard to tell with those sunglasses.) I, on the other hand, came to a full stop and, hands in my pockets, turned to watch her pass.

I calculated the likelihood of a response other than "Fuck off, asshole" if I dared catcall. Before I could make up my mind a gust of wind swept her hat off her head, sent it tumbling through the air, and deposited it at my feet. I picked it up, dusted it off, and held it out for her.

"Thank you," she said a little breathlessly, her mahogany tresses whipped into a frenzy by the unrelenting wind.

"Not at all."

She ran a hand halfheartedly through her hair, as though she knew the effort would be in vain, frowned, and didn't take her hat. "I know you from somewhere."

"Do you?" I asked, hoping I didn't sound too hopeful that this should be so.

"Where are you staying?"

I informed her.

"Well, that's not it." Her frown deepened and her perfectly sculpted eyebrows furrowed. Then she shrugged. "Oh well. It'll come to me later." She snatched her hat out of my hand and squashed it firmly on her head. "Thanks again." She'd only gone a few paces before she turned round and shambled up to me again. "Do you know how to get to the Bernberg Museum? I'm meeting some friends, and I think they gave me bad directions."

"I'm going that way myself." It was a lie, but I wasn't about to pass up an opportunity to escort her.

Over the course of our walk we learned each others names ("Rachel," she said firmly. "Everyone calls me Ray and I hate it." "I'll remember that," I said.) and that we had both dined at La Cucina Di Ciro on Tuesday. Though I didn't remember her particularly, I did remember a large and rather noisy group of American students.

In no time it seemed we were standing outside the museum, not sure what to do next.

"Would you like to join me for dinner?" I asked before I came to my senses. "I know this fantastic—"

"Ohh." Her frown was back. "Um. Well. Thank you for the offer, but . . . I already have plans."

Thinking I had mistaken her polite interest for flirting, I immediately started to backpedal.

"However," she said before I could do any real damage, "I am free tomorrow for lunch. Here, I'll give you my number." She took out a pen from some hidden pocket and scrawled the ten digits onto my right palm. "That way you can't lose it," she explained with a wink.

"I would never."

She smirked as she capped her pen and stowed it away. "Anyway, I should get going." She nodded toward a group of people that had just appeared around the corner. I took them to be the friends she was meeting. "Thanks again for rescuing me."

"My pleasure."

She looked back once as she walked away and waved.

I raised a hand, the one she had scribbled one, and watched as she was swallowed up into the building.

I don't know what it was that attracted me to her. Oddly enough it wasn't her blood. Well, that was a small part of it, I admit. But the thought of sucking her dry in a dark alley—or anywhere for that matter—didn't appeal to me.

I rang that same evening, thinking it foolish to wait.

"Hello," she answered dully.

"Hi," I said and paused. What came after Hi? "This is Malakai." It was strange using my given name; I must have really liked her.

"Oh hello," she said brightly. "You called!"

"Yes," I said slowly. "Yes I did. I even have a good reason," I continued, regaining a little of my usual charm.

"Oh?" I heard the smile in her voice.

"I wanted to put my bid in for lunch tomorrow if you're still free." I approved of this line. It sounded like something I would say, I thought. It was a start anyway."

She laughed. "I am, but I really shouldn't."

"Shouldn't what? Be free or eat with me?"

"Either."

"Why? What did I ever do to you?"

She laughed again. "Nothing, nothing."

"Then come out with me. Wherever you like."

I half-hoped it would cure me of this infatuation, thinking the more I knew her the less I would like her. This was not so. The more she talked, the more _alive_ she became. And I was able, for the first time in months, to think of something other than Luke and his unfortunate fate.

"To be clear," she said when we were seated at an empty table in the little cafe, "this is not a date."

"Is that what they're calling it now?"

"Ha. I'm not kidding."

I studied her a moment, a number a questions coming to mind. But I didn't feel up to dissecting the contradictory behavior of women that evening. "All right. This isn't a date. So tell me, what happens on this non-date?"

Turns out, exactly the same thing that happens on a date-date. Except she paid for her meal, which I didn't like. We had a long amiable chat about what each of us was doing in Johannesburg (She was there finishing a semester abroad. Originally from Boston, she was studying Communications in Chicago. When I asked why South Africa she shrugged and said "Why not?" as if that were as good a reason as any), our friends and family, music, movies, books, current events, a round of questions about what I did for a living—and by then it was almost time for dinner. She was meeting classmates across town and, thanks for the lovely chat, but she really had to be going.

"What if I wanted to see you again?" I asked as she was getting into a cab.

"I . . ." She looked a little guilty. "I'm leaving tomorrow. This is my last night here."

I didn't find that acceptable. "But I can still call you, can't I?"

She looked unsure. ". . . Yes."

And she was gone.

It seemed silly to linger in Johannesburg without her. I thought of following her to Chicago, but, as she knew my home to be in London, explaining my presence in the Windy City would be hard. So I did the only sensible thing and began the lonely trek home, feeling a little more hopeful than when I had left. I stopped over in Paris, thinking my favorite city would do me some good. I set out for a stroll one moonless evening, hardly caring where I went, and before long I found myself outside a favorite old haunt of mine. It was a trendy little pub, not too terribly off the beaten track and never once letting me down for an after-dinner pick-me-up—And I'm not talking about the scotch, though that's superb as well. I stood there, hands in my pockets, staring at it, thinking I might not want to go in after all; there was too much laughter, too much happiness trickling out under the door. I didn't want happiness. I wanted a hole-in-the-wall, a grimy half-empty pub where the people society no longer cared for went to drown their woes for an hour or two or five.

* * *

><p>Hello everybody! I hope you had a lovely Christmas holiday. (Which I hope was not as green as mine.) I had some other things I wanted to tell you but it's late and I've had a long day and forgot . . . So, I'll just end by saying "See you next year!"<p> 


	9. Chapter 7

**Chapter 7**

I went in anyway.

It was crowded and noisy, just as I knew it would be, yet I managed to find an empty seat at the far end of the bar. The dark-haired, almond-eyed woman sitting on my right tried to strike up a conversation when I mistakenly ordered the same drink as she. I suppose she thought I was attempting to flirt. I didn't pay her much mind and before long she excused herself to the powder room and never returned.

I felt strangely ill at ease; my eyes roved over the crowd listlessly, never settling on anyone for long, but always drifting back to the same face: the man at the other end of the bar.

It took me a while to realize he was watching me. The instant I looked at him, really _looked_ at him, everything began to fade; the people, their conversations, even the lights and the ceiling seemed to blur into one meaningless streak of color. He raised his glass to me, this man at the other end of the bar, tossed it back, and turned to leave. I knew him. And I knew that I knew him, but . . .

It couldn't be.

He was dead. Everyone knew that. Yet here he was. Same silvery blond hair, same black as licorice eyes.

It had to be.

"Lucas."

The word escaped me like a long forgotten dream. Lucas! Alive!

"Lucas!" I shouted, jumping out of me seat.

A hush fell across the pub as every pair of eyes turned to stare at me. Luke, his hand outstretched toward the door, paused. The whole place seemed to wait with bated breath as I waded through the sea of bodies. Then, not ten steps from him, I stopped short. The smile fell from my face. In my excitement I had overlooked one tiny fact that now seemed to hang over his head in large pink neon letters:

WEREWOLF

He looked at me.

I looked at him.

For one absurd moment I wanted to shout "Why didn't you tell me?" as if he had been hiding his true nature from the start. I knew even as the thought crossed my mind that he hadn't, that he had been human once and it was because of me that he wasn't any longer.

He turned on his heel and disappeared into the street.

"Luke!" I scrambled after him, sure I would lose him again, sure he wouldn't linger now that he knew what I was, that I knew what he was. But there he was. Sitting on a bus bench on the other side of the street half a block away. I relaxed. If he was really determined to get away from me he would have tried harder. Then, to my horror, a bus appeared around the corner just as I stepped off the curb. My heart froze in my chest as it came to a screeching stop, brakes hissing, door clanging open, slapping shut, and lurching away, leaving only a trail of foul smoke and—my heart leapt into my throat—Lucas.

I let out a strangled shout of delight and started across the street with a sort of reckless abandonment.

"Don't."

It was hardly more than a whisper, but it left my ears ringing as though he had screamed it.

In the middle of the avenue, I stopped dead in my tracks. "Luke . . ." I pleaded, more hurt than I cared to let on.

"I said don't!" This time he did shout.

A car came hurtling down the ave. I couldn't move; it had to swerve to avoid me, its shrill horn bleating as it went sailing by.

"So vampires really do exist," he said contemptuously. There was a certain bitter irony to his words, a hidden challenge maybe. It puzzled me. "I said, I guess vampires really do exist."

"Lucas," I said, taking a step toward him.

"I wouldn't if I were you."

"Luke . . ."

"So, are you going to kill me now or what?"

I stared. "Kill you? How could I? Lucas, don't you remember—"

"I know who you are. They told me all about you." He glanced up the street, as if it were too painful for him to look at me and say these things.

I closed a few yards between us.

"Why didn't you tell me?"

"Tell you?" I repeated blankly. "Tell you _what_? We knew each other for a week, Luke, at best. I don't go around telling people I've only just met that vampires exist and, oh, by the way I am one!" I shouted for the world to hear. But there was no one to hear it. Just Luke. Who wasn't listening. "I have no intention of fighting you, Luke. Can't we talk?"

He laughed darkly, a horribly jaded sound, and my already cracked heart broke, shattered on the pavement at my feet.

"I have nothing to say to you."

"That's a lie and you know it!" I was suddenly livid. "What were you doing here if not waiting for me? How many nights have you sat—"

"Too many to think you would ever come!" The truth was out of him before he even knew it. Angry, at himself or at me I couldn't be sure, he shot off the bench and stalked away, making the mistake of turning his back to me.

I sprang into action, closing the distance between us in an instant and tackled him to the ground. He didn't put up much resistance—it was, after all, a new moon; he was no stronger than an ordinary human. An initial wriggle, maybe, but then he lay quite still, his face pressed against the cold concrete in what I could only imagine was a highly uncomfortable fashion.

"Geroffme," he grumbled.

I ignored him, made no move to release him or loosen my hold. "If you were so keen to find me—"

"I wasn't keen."

"—why didn't you ring me at Brookshire? If you know all about me, which I doubt, I imagine—"

"I wasn't keen."

"Answer the question."

"Lemme up first."

"I would, but you've got my arms—" I didn't get a chance to finish my sentence. I'd relaxed my hold too soon and the next thing I knew, his elbow struck the side of my head and I was sent toppling sideways, eyes stinging and ears ringing.

By the time I recovered, Luke had regained his place on the bench and was busy glaring daggers at anything but me. "Sit down if you like," he said grudgingly after whole minutes had passed. "Not that close," he amended when, in my excitement, I'd wedged myself but a centimeter from him.

Sullen, I slid to the other end of the bench.

"What happens now?" he asked after several more minutes ticked by.

"I don't know. What does one normally do in a situation like this?"

"The hell should I know?"

He had a point.

"Well," I stalled, trying to think. "I could buy you a drink."

"The pubs are closed."

I looked down the street and saw that the lights in Corcoran's had indeed been put out. Was it really that late already? "We could take a walk in the park."

"Think I'll pass, thanks."

"I've a flat nearby—"

"No."

"Well," I said, to feel a little cross that he had yet to suggest anything. "I suppose our only real option is to get married."

I thought I saw a smile steal across his lips. "Naturally."

"Have children."

He nodded.

"Grandchildren."

"Of course."

"I suppose I'll have to introduce you to my mother."

"Let's not get carried away."

I caught his eye, smiled sadly, then dropped my gaze. "I looked for you, you know. I was back at Oxford by the end of the week, but you were already gone. I looked for months and months—"

"How many months?"

"I lost count," I lied a little too quickly.

"No you didn't."

"Seven."

"Liar."

I scowled, hating him for making me say it. I looked round, as if looking for a way out of tell him the truth. I knew it was no use. I would always tell him the truth. "Twenty-eight," I muttered under my breath.

"How many?" he asked again, though I knew full well he had heard.

"Twenty-eight months, two weeks, five days and a handful of hours. That's when I could no longer ignore the overwhelming amount of evidence that pointed to your death."

He smiled darkly and I realized it must have been his aim all along.

"I thought I had died," he said slowly. "I wish I had. When they found me . . ." He put his right hand over his left forearm, his fingers twinging as if he meant to pull up the sleeve, show me what was hidden there. Instead, he told me in as few words as possible the story of the attack (which was gruesome), his hospitalization (which was brief), and his subsequent abduction. There was always so much anger in his voice when he spoke of them. So much hate. And, what always pricked my heart, fear. Fear that would haunt him all the days of his life. Fear I couldn't help but feel responsible for. He never, in all the years I knew him, went into much detail about what they did to him during his "apprenticeship," and I never pushed the subject. Perhaps I should have. Perhaps he wanted me to. I don't know. But over the years I heard enough bits and pieces to put together some semblance of the truth:

One evening, some three weeks after his return home, he went out for a walk after supper. That wasn't so unusual. He often walked then; the worried looks his mother gave him became unbearable after the plates were cleared. So he walked. Rather than muddle through the pain and self-hatred or loathing or pity or fear or whatever it was he had, and come out whole on the other side, Luke walked away. Because it was easier. Because walking away didn't hurt. Because that's what he'd always done. Why shouldn't it work now?

Little did he know he was being followed that night. Little did he know a car waited around the corner, engine running, lights off. Little did he know that the man lying in wait on the other side of the tinted glass wasn't a man at all, but a werewolf. And not just any werewolf. _The_ werewolf. Crevan.

That night, walking in his neighborhood, he was probably ambushed by three or four of Crevan's disciples, ordered to kill him while their Alpha looked on. I imagine Luke put up a fight. And a good one at that. Somehow or other he impressed Crevan enough to make him call off the dogs, so to speak. What other reason would there be to let him live? They probably knocked him out with a good blow to the head and spirited him away to their "Recruiting Center"—a warehouse by the docks, as it turns out. Original isn't it?

He probably woke up half an hour later lying on the cold cement floor of an iron-barred cell, possibly with his hands bound, though I doubt it. I suppose at first they tried to be nice. It's what I certainly would have done if I were trying to convince a hostage to join my team. But Luke, clearly, obviously, refused. And paid the price. More than once, I might add. Every day for nearly a month they beat the shit out of him because they could. And I strongly suspect—though I have no proof and Luke, of course, has never so much as hinted at it—raped him. After all, nothing shatters a man's spirit quite as effectively. That is, until the next full moon when Luke transformed and killed two veteran fighters. The very next morning Crevan came sweeping in like the good master, diving into an uproar when he "discovered" they were "treating their new brother so poorly." Crevan would have publicly whipped and/or flogged and/or whatever werewolf Alphas do to punish disobedience and demanded they properly clothe and feed and water the fledgling before delivering him to his chambers. Luke's body and spirit sufficiently broken, Crevan felt safe to turn on the hospitality and charm once again. He played his role to a T, seducing Luke as thoroughly as I seduced Thomas a century ago. Crevan never let Luke out of his sight. They ate together, slept together (not in that sense of the word), visited the Court together to make Luke's "adoption" legal. Luke doted on him, depended on him for everything, wanted nothing more than to please him. In return, he was trained how to control his powers and how not to kill his packmates when he turned into the "White Wolf."

"I got out of there as soon as I could," was all he said that first night. He never said how, or why he had sought me out when he had.

"Luke, I—"

"No. Please. I'm tired." He shifted in his seat. "I don't know what I was expecting from you. Vampire and werewolves don't exactly get along. Or so I've been told." He stood up, brushed his hands together as if washing them of this business. "I'm sorry. I oughtn't have."

I thought he was going to walk away, walk away and never come back. I panicked.

"W-wait," I said, practically jumping to my feet. "What if . . . what if it didn't have to be like that?"

"Like what?"

"Hostile between us. I've a flat nearby. We could talk in private."

I owned a number of properties in Paris. Some big, some small, usually sublet when I wasn't around. Chances were always good, however, that one or another of them would be between tenants whenever I decided to drop by spur of the moment. (I had a room at the hotel but thought bringing him there was a bad idea. The hotel staff might misinterpret things, especially given the hour. And, although I couldn't have cared one way or the other, I wanted to spare Luke from their furtive glances the next morning.) It was a shabby little building; this part of town had long since fallen out of fashion. But it was clean enough. And quiet. That was the important thing.

As I picked the lock, (I never had keys) I saw Luke nervously scan the street out of the corner of my eye, as if he expected Interpol to descend upon us at any moment, as if we were doing something illegal. Well, I thought, nudging the door open and motioning Luke inside, I supposed we were. After all, there were several laws prohibiting werewolf/vampire fraternization. We crossed the unlit and slightly neglected front hall, opted for the lift rather than six flights of stairs. (We could have easily climbed them, but I was overcome by a sudden urge to remain stationary, and so pushed the little brass button for UP.) But, I reasoned with myself as we were carried up in silence, Luke was only half-werewolf. And I couldn't remember any law against that.

Comforted, I led us to 6A, picked the lock, and ushered the skeptic half-breed inside.

The flat was as I had left it: sparsely furnished and neat—if not a little dusty. I snapped on the lights, flooding the tiny entry with a sickly yellow glow, and caught the look of disappointment on his face.

"You were expecting Buckingham Palace?"

He scratched his chin. "Something like."

I laughed a little, closed the door with a soft _thwick_, and tossed my jacket carelessly over the umbrella stand in the corner.

"Anything to drink?" I asked, hoping there was at least _some_thing palatable in the kitchen.

"Anything," he agreed.

My search went better than expected: there was a nearly full bottle of convenience store red hiding behind the spoiled milk, and, on the top shelf of the pantry with its Christmas bow still intact, a large unopened bottle of scotch. Clearly, someone hadn't cared for their presents this year.

I experienced a brief moment of panic when I reemerged with my spoils to find the entry deserted, sure Luke had fled—when I heard a noise from the other room. I turned to find Luke crouched in from of the drafty fireplace, fiddling with something.

"You know, I don't think that w—" Before I could get the last word out there was the sizzle of a match, a tiny _fwoomp_, and the hearth was ablaze with a feeble flickering orange light. "—orks."

He looked over his shoulder at me, a particularly forced and gloomy smile on his face.

I returned an equally pained grin and deposited my treasures on the dusty coffee table. I stood awkwardly for a moment, thought I ought to sit, and so sat on the lumpy sofa and immediately wished I hadn't.

Luke turned back to the fire. He heaved a sigh and settled against the leg of the lumpy armchair behind him. For a moment he closed his eyes. For a moment his entire body seemed to soften as if his muscles were unclenching for the first time in years. But only for a moment. In the next, he was on his feet muttering hurried apologies about how he couldn't stay, he had to go.

"But you just got here!" I wailed, on the verge of standing myself.

"I ought to—"

"You can't!"

"Really, Malakai, I'm tired. It was silly of me—What's the matter?"

I'd slid of out of my seat—I was startled out of it, actually—so great was the shock of hearing him say my name. I'd begun to think he'd forgotten.

"Oh Christ," he said in a great expulsion of air, raking a hand through his flaxen hair.

I stared at him, my eyes stinging and smarting with tears I hadn't allowed myself to shed for three years. I very nearly shed them now. "I just," I began and took a breath to steady my nerves, "can't help but think that this is all my fault."

"Don't be stupid."

"N-no," I said, forcing the tremor out of my voice. My hands shook. "Listen. The night before . . . Do you remember? I was there, Luke. With you. You said I could stay. And I wanted to. Desperately, I wanted to. But I couldn't, I just—And then—" My voice hitched in my throat. I stared miserably at my hands, waiting for him to say something, unable to look at him.

"It wasn't your fault."

"You don't underst—"

"No, Kai, _you_ don't understand. Even if I'd never met you—"

"You'd still be lost in the wood . . ." I muttered gloomily.

"—What?"

And that's how, for the better part of three hours and the entire bottle of scotch, I wound up telling him everything.

He vaguely remembered the search and rescue from the wood, though he always assumed it had been his father who found him. He didn't recall seeing me at the station in London, but admitted he'd done a double take in Paris when he thought he recognized me. Similarly in New York.

We took turns telling increasingly absurd stories, staying up long after the first rays of rosy dawn came creeping in through the curtains. I was in the middle of the story about the woman—girl, really—I met in South Africa last month, the exchange of numbers, the promise of a drink if I ever found myself in Chicago, when Luke started to snore. And I, suddenly aware of the hour and the exhaustion biting at my own eyes, was quick to follow.

Now, vampires don't sleep in the traditional sense of the word. Over the centuries, as our species evolved to walk in the light, we have required less and less sleep. I think it has to do with the unique magic that keeps us alive even in death. As _it_ changes, _we_ change. We are all born of the same blood. Well, most of us anyway; no one has yet figured out why Lestat is confined to his coffin while I can have afternoon tea with the Duchess. It is the last great mystery of our race. Even so, it isn't a true sleep. It's more like a trance, I think. We are still aware of our surroundings, but it is as if a dark veil has descended over everything, muffling it. Our minds are—at least mine is—simply at peace, sometimes for the first time it months. Most vampires these days don't bother. Some don't even know we still can. But, as I said, it is not a true sleep. We merely skate along the rim of consciousness, neither here nor there.

So, it was with a bit of a shock when I "awoke" several hours later to find Luke nowhere in sight.

* * *

><p>Well, it's finally happened. I've hit a wall. Luckily, not until Chapter 14, so we've still got time for a miracle. Although, with the rate it's going, I'm not so sure that's likely. Wish me luck!<p>

And, as always, enjoy!


	10. Chapter 8

**Chapter 8**

"Lucas!" I called out at once, panic scrambling my innards as I bolted to my feet. I felt sure he had been carried off by rabbits. "Luke!"

His shoes were gone, his jacket, too. I refused to believe it. He wasn't—couldn't . . . He wouldn't just _leave_ . . . would he?

I hastened to pull on my shoes and throw open the door. I was so startled by what greeted me on the other side I nearly toppled over backward. "L-Luke!" I gasped, my fingernails digging into the drywall for support. (There was nothing else to cling to.) "I thought you . . ."

"I did," he said simply, crossing the threshold and closing the door behind him. "But then I remembered I have nowhere else to go. I brought breakfast," he added, indicating the grocery sack he carried in each hand. "For me, at any rate."

I swayed a little on the spot.

"All right?"

I shook my head. "Fine."

He grinned at me. Something about it felt forced, as did all his smiles. I suspected I had yet to see a real one, and thought to point this out to him but decided against it; our friendship was still too fragile—perhaps had not yet slipped past acquaintanceship. There was no way of knowing if he might simply walk out again. And I didn't want that.

I followed him into the kitchen like a lost puppy. "Why didn't you wake me?"

He paused in the middle of setting down the bread, glanced at me. "I wasn't sure if I should," he said slowly and nodded toward the little window with the afternoon sun streaking in. "Oh, by the way." He reached into his back pocket, slapped a piece of plastic on the counter. My credit card. "I didn't have any cash."

I made no move to retrieve it. "I'd have offered anyway." I sat down at the tiny table shoved into the grimy corner, and watched Luke assemble the groceries on the faded counter. His demeanor seemed greatly improved. Sleep had obviously done him more good that it had me.

We lapsed into silence. Luke resumed unpacking. Eggs. Bacon. Milk. Cheese. Butter. An assortment of apples and oranges. And—

"Apricot jam?" I said aloud.

He looked up at me curiously.

"Sorry," I said quickly. "Never mind. I just . . . you seem more like a strawberry—" I cut off rather abruptly.

His eyes widened in what I hoped was amusement and not fear. Shaking his head, he crumpled the empty paper sack into a tight ball, tossed it aside. He said nothing as he pulled various dusty pots and pans from the cupboard, watching me out of the corner of his eye and looking like . . . I don't know. I got the feeling he was trying to sum me up, like he was still trying to figure me out.

And then, as he set to scrambling eggs in a freshly scrubbed pan and frying bacon on a stove top so ancient it was a marvel it didn't crumble at his slightest touch, he turned his back to me. Well, I thought, staring fixedly at a point between his wide shoulders, this was certainly progress. He must have decided I was no longer a threat and—while I reminded myself that I could be very threatening when I felt like it—I was glad for it.

"Did you mean it?" he asked quite suddenly over the sizzle and pop of pig fat. "What you said last night about coming to live with you?"

Had I said that? I must have. Somewhere between the whipped cream and drinking the last of the scotch, I must have.

"Only if you want to," I said.

"Can I ask why?"

"Why you'd want to? Well, for starters I throw smashing parties, and—"

"I meant why offer?"

"Do you not want to? I know it was rather rash of me. I—"

"_Malakai_," he said forcefully. He turned to me, his bacon quite forgotten. "Please. I'm just curious, that's all."

I looked down at my hands, thought for a moment, and spoke without meaning to:

"Have you ever been so lonely you forget to breathe? Some weeks I forget who I am or what I'm still doing here. Nothing is ever worth it because, really, what's the point? It's only going to leave you or die. Meanwhile, your delicate little world, the glass cocoon you spun to protect yourself from the real reality begins to crack beneath your fingertips, and you're left as you were before: Alone. Friendless. Waiting for the whole goddam thing to stop being so damn hard. But it never does. The years drag slowly on and there is nothing to distract you from what your life has become, what _you've_ become. And after a while you see what you have isn't a life at all. But a relic of one. A substitute. A sham . . . I need a friend, Luke. I've been too long without one."

My voice failed me then. I tried several times to begin anew, but every time I opened my mouth to speak nothing came out. I had never spoken these words to anyone, though I had felt them keenly for years.

"Christ," I heard him mutter, something he said when he didn't know what to say.

I stared miserably at the grimy tabletop. I was doing that a lot lately, staring miserably at things.

I heard Luke turn to attend to his bacon and eggs. There was a clattering of utensils, a scraping of metal against metal, the horrible sound milk makes when it's poured too quickly, almost like someone drowning, someone who can't quite draw enough breath. I never much liked that sound. I felt him move across the small kitchen, hear the legs of the wooden chair grind against the linoleum, saw his plate appear on the edge of my field of vision, the glass of milk, heard him sit down, knew I had only to raise my eyes and I would find his, kind and sympathetic, looking back at me. But I didn't—couldn't. I had said too much to him again. I couldn't say more. For the longest time there was nothing but the sound of his fork dredging eggs from the far corners of his plate, his thoughtful chewing, his audible swallows.

It wasn't until the dishes were cleaned and returned to their homes that he leaned against the sink, arms folded, and studied me. "Is that really all you want? A friend?"

He wasn't poking fun or berating. Nor did he scoff or jeer. It was with understanding and sympathy that he asked.

I should have nodded—perhaps I started to—but I had made myself too vulnerable already. "Yes," I retorted, "it's damn tiring fetching my own dry cleaning all the time."

There was such kindness in his answering smile that I felt lousy for saying it. And you were doing so well, it seemed to say.

I looked again at my hands.

I heard him sigh and in another moment knew he had sat down again.

"I miss England," he admitted at last. "Hell, I even miss the damn rain."

I glanced up at him, smiled, if not a little miserably.

"But," he went on, "I'm supposed to be dead. If I were to go back . . . If they knew . . ."

"I can protect you," I blurted—begged, really.

He paused, looked at me a long time. "Why?"

I blinked. I had expected How. But not Why. Not again. "I've already explained—"

"I mean why go to the trouble? Why me? Why not find a friend who's . . . less work? What's in it for you?"

All legitimate question. All deserving of a truthful answer.

I set my elbows on the table one by one, bowed my head into my hands and massaged my eyes, which suddenly felt very tired. "I don't know."

"But _why?_" he persisted.

Overcome with a sudden rush of anger, I snatched my hands away from my face and slammed them on the table. "Dammit, I don't know! I don't know!" I shoved back my chair—it fell to the floor with a clatter—and I stalked from the room. "If you don't want to just say so!" I shouted over my shoulder.

There was the hint of a sigh, a soft scrape as he too pushed back his chair, the sound of his footsteps, even and calm.

I stopped in the dingy hall, turned, waited.

He looked a little worn, sad maybe.

"I'd like to," he said, and I could feel a "but" following close behind. "Compared to the other options available to me, there's nothing I'd like more, but" —See?— "I don't see how it's possible."

"Don't. See," I repeated blankly. "Don't . . . It's actually quite simple, Luke. We pack a suitcase, get on a damn plane and GO THE FUCK HOME!"

"That's not what I meant."

"Oh, for Christ's sake! Say what you mean already!"

"I would," he cut across me, matching my volume, "if you would stop interrupting and _give me time to explain!_"

I opened my mouth to retort, but whatever I had been about to say died on my tongue.

He was shaking his head. "Always jumping to conclusions," he sighed. "The wrong ones too, mind."

"Don't you _always_ me—"

He held up a hand, silencing me.

I slumped against the front door, arms crossed firmly over my chest, utterly emasculated.

"Just listen, all right? I'm new at this." He paused. "Let me start over: I _may_ be new at this, but I know the rules." He paused again, waiting, I knew, to see if I would interrupt. I didn't, of course, and he had nothing to do but go on. "And I know vampires and werewolves don't get along. And I know why." He paused a third time. I was beginning to think he_ wanted_ me to interrupt him, that he secretly _liked_ it despite what he said. I was determined not to, however, and when he wandered back into the kitchen and sat down at the table I followed, sulky and silent.

"I also know about you," he finished.

"Yes, you keep saying that. You've said it three times already. _What_ do you know about me?"

"You're on the list."

"List? Werewolves have a list? Of what? Top Ten Vampires We'd Like To Fu—"

"Kill on Sight."

I think I laughed out loud. "Sorry. But you're joking, aren't you? There really isn't such a—"

"And it's Top One Hundred, actually. You're number sixty-two."

"Only sixty-two! Why, I've never felt so insulted in my life." I started to laugh again until I caught sight of his face—he looked quite serious. "Really?" I said, trying to look serious and failing. "Jesus, what is this _America's Most Wanted_?"

Luke shrugged. "It's a bit archaic—"

"That's not the word I'd have used."

"—but is vampire culture really any different?"

I averted my gaze. "I wouldn't know about that."

"It's one of the few ways to improve your pack ranking. Anyone in the top hundred guarantees you a mate for the coming year."

I really did laugh this time. It was all too much. "Well, at least I can die happy knowing someone got laid."

He ignored this. "I read in your file that you slaughtered an entire village in the 80s. Some six hundred—"

"I did no such thing!" I said defensively. "It was some kind of chemical poisoning. I wasn't—"

"I know."

"Then why—?"

"I also hear you have ties with the High Council or whatever you call it. Is that true?"

I shrugged. "Yes and no. Not with the family in England—although they treat me as though I were. But with the Ancients, the ones who govern us all, yes, I suppose so. I daresay I get away with a great deal because of it." And then it dawned on me. "Oh, I see. You wonder how it will look if the heir to the Kingdom starts shacking up with a lowly sewerdog, is that it?"

"What do you mean 'heir'?"

I shook my head. "Figure of speech. That's it though isn't it? And you think I haven't thought of all this? I'm perfectly aware of the laws. I'm perfectly aware we'd be putting ourselves at risk." I shrugged dismissively. "I never much cared for that set of laws."

"So, because you don't care for it you're going to ignore it altogether? Just tear that page out of the Good Vampire Handbook."

I smiled acidly. "It's a Field Guide, first of all. Second, _I get away with a great deal_. Third—just say yes already so we can get the hell out of here! I'm famished!"

But Luke was in no hurry. He remained quite firmly seated.

"You said before you could protect me."

I made no sign that this was true or even that I had heard him. I turned my eyes from him and stared fixedly at the sink, suddenly fascinated by the leaky faucet and the peculiar noises it made.

_Twip twip tink. _

_Twip twip tack._

_Twip twip tonk._

"How d'you reckon you'll manage that?"

I pulled my eyes to his pale, strained face. His skepticism was returning, I could see it in his eyes.

"There's a cottage," I said, the idea coming to me even as I spoke, as if I had known it all along. "An old garden shed, really. On the grounds." I saw it in my mind: the stone hut obscured by a copse of old but sturdy trees; its terracotta roof; the single window with its broken pane; the splintered door on its rusty hinges. "It has a cellar, if I remember right. All it really needs is a werewolf-proof hatch."

"And the rest of the month?"

"You will be permitted into the main house, of course." I shrugged when he didn't look convinced. "There's only one person I need convince. And he's yet to refuse me anything. You'll like Brookshire," I went on. "I've the most deplorable manservant, Parker. He's simply fantastic. You know, I—" I cut myself off. I'd glance up to see Luke looking worried, even panicked, and forgot what I meant to say. "Luke. Maybe . . . Say we have a go and if it doesn't work out, well, it doesn't work out. No harm in trying, is there?"

But there was harm in trying. If I'd known how deep his mistrust of me ran, I might not have been so eager to get him home. As it was, we arrived at Brookshire's gate the following afternoon.

* * *

><p>Happy Friday the 13th! So, I've been trying different things to unblock my writer's block to no avail. Lately I've been wondering why I started writing this in the first place, and the only answer I've been able to come up with so far is: Because I was curious to know how it started. Kai and Luke, I mean. Because his character is as much a mystery to me as it is to all of you. So why not see where it goes?<p> 


	11. Chapter 9

**Chapter 9**

"You live _here_?"

I quirked a smile. "Occasionally."

I suppose to someone else, someone who's never seen it before, Brookshire is a very awe-inspiring place. It's ancient for starters (built some time around 1760), and intimidating, for seconds; it is a very tall two-and-a-half story sandstone rectangle, flecked with eighteenth century architectural detail and great tall windows all the way round. It is among the last great country estates in all of England. It was bequeathed to me by my sire in 1835, a miserable bastard who felt just sorry enough for abandoning me to leave me a house but not a name. When it came under my possession, Brookshire sat on the northeast corner of a few hundred acres of excellent hunting grounds, rolling pastures, and farmland irrigated by a wide, shallow brook. Back in the day, everybody who was anybody wanted an invitation from Brookshire (I throw smashing parties, as stated before) and so twice a year, I opened my doors to all the well-to-do and upwardly-mobile men and women from as far away as Brighton and we all ate and drank and danced too much—except Cecil, who was always a bit of a wanker.

I leased most of the land out to tenant farmers and shepherds and invited huntsmen from all over the county to shoot rabbits and deer and other furry woodland creatures. I attempted to turn it into a hotel of sorts after World War I. It worked for a while until Esther, the mistress of the house at the time, informed me guests were stealing the towels, among other things. After that, I slowly began selling off Brookshire's acreage until I'd whittled it down to a little less than thirty. Just enough to keep the essentials: gatehouse, greenhouse, stables. (The stable was once home to a menagerie of Dappled Grays, Quarters, Palominos and one temperamental Arabian. When Luke arrived, it was serving as a garage for my collection of old and expensive cars until the day those too had gone.) To the west of the greenhouse lay the old kitchen gardens, rather neglected in recent years. Flower gardens, a very green and unused pool (complete with a topless mermaid fountain), and a little hunting lodge on the eastern-most edge of the property hidden amongst what's left of the forest. Oh, and the brook.

I often wonder why I keep it—Brookshire, that is. I've often thought of selling it. Or burning it. And why not? After all, I hate the man who left it to me.

My ancient manservant and only live-in employee, Parker, was there to greet us on the front steps. He was a small man, the silver hair on his head just beginning to thin.

"Good afternoon, sir."

"Hello, Parker. This is Mr. Lucas Brown. He is to be our guest."

Parker tipped his head politely. "Will Mr. Brown be staying for supper?"

I had to laugh. I knew what he meant, of course, the cheeky bastard. Luke seemed not to have heard. "And a great deal longer than that, I should hope. Really, Parker, where are your manners! Lucas, dear, say hello to Parker. Parker, please meet our new resident werewolf."

"It is a pleasure, sir, I am sure." Parker gave another little bow, completely unfazed by the announcement.

Luke, on the other hand, had gone white as a sheet.

"Oh, calm down," I told him. "Parker is the very soul of discretion, my secret keeper. Mums the word, Parker, naturally."

"Naturally, sir. Shall I prepare tea?"

"Do, please."

Luke looked between us like a frightened puppy.

I clapped him reassuringly on the shoulder. "You've nothing to fear from him. The man owes his life to me. And much more than that, I should think. How about a tour? Parker has left your things at the top of the stairs. Why don't you pick out a room? I'll be along in a moment."

I slipped into the kitchen when I was sure he wouldn't follow. Parker, who was assembling the tea things, looked up.

"I've a job for you, Parker."

"Concerning the dog, sir?"

"Be nice, Parker. He's only half-blood." I'd thought that was clear.

"A mutt, then."

"I won't have that kind of talk in my house," I warned, raising my voice to him for the first of what would be many times over the next few months. "You know the old cabin in the north corner? I need it werewolf-proofed by the end of next week."

"Very good, sir. Though I must ask, have you thought of the ramifications—"

"I assume you know someone who won't ask questions."

"They know not to bother by now. But sir, if you intend to keep this . . . half-blood, you—"

"That's all for now, Parker. We'll take tea in the front parlor."

After tea I took Luke on a tour, and for a while, as I recounted some of Brookshire's more impressive feats, he was able to forget about his "condition." For a while so was I. He was Luke again, Luke in the old days, brief as they were. It was hard to believe that but three short years ago he had been human . . . And then, as we made our way out of the drawing room and up the stairs, he remembered. Remembered what he was, what I was, what he was doing there, and panicked.

"Luke," I found myself saying more than once that first evening, "it's all right. You're safe here."

I wondered if one day he might believe me.

He wouldn't sleep that first night. I heard him creaking up and down the hall outside my study. I was just getting to the good part of _A Room with a View _when I peered over the top of my glasses and called to him.

His head appeared round the door like some frightened child and I was overwhelmed by a rush of . . . sympathy? affection? I didn't dwell on it.

"I'm sorry," he said. "I'm interrupting."

"Not at all." I set the book and my glasses aside. "Come in, I won't bite." I invited him to sit. "You look like you could use a drink. Brandy?"

He accepted the glass with gratitude.

"You look troubled," I observed when I poured him another.

"I keep thinking . . ." He studied his glass. "I keep thinking I shouldn't be here. And then I think . . ."

"You have no where else to go?"

"Something like that."

"Well, I wasn't kidding when I said you could stay. Brookshire can get awfully lonely. It will be nice to have some company for a change."

"I don't think Parker likes me very much."

"Oh, he'll come round. He's old and set in his ways, but he isn't cruel. Besides, my house, my rules."

"Have you had him very long?"

I smiled and nodded. "Yes. Very long. Since the end of the Second World War. I saved him from the clutches of death in the, what are they called, trenches. He was predictably grateful and swore his life to me though I told him he didn't have to."

"World War II? How old is he?"

"About ninety," I guessed.

"Ninety! He looks about half that."

"It's a side effect. You see, he was rather bad off when I found him and I had to give him some of my blood to save his life. And, well, vampire blood can be . . . habit forming. I'm afraid of what might happen if I stop. Oh, don't give me that look. It's only once a month."

"And do other vampires . . . ?"

"What do I care what other vampires do? Silly creatures, vampires."

"I suppose you are a little unconventional," he mused, almost to himself.

"In what way?"

"In every way. Parker. This house. That sweater—"

"What's wrong with argyle?" I asked, taking offense.

"Nothing. It's just—"

"Not what you expected? Nothing ever is, is it? I've a coffin in the basement, if that will appease you."

"I wonder if you really are as benign as you seem to be. I had the feeling in Oxford that there was something . . ."

"Please don't say 'sinister.' It's too cliché, even for you."

He smirked then suddenly frowned. "How did you know who I was? I mean, how did you recognize me after all those years?"

"I never forget a face," I said simply. Which was true enough.

"Do you still . . . ?" He motioned to his neck.

"Still what? Eat people? No, I gave that up when I quit smoking. Of course I still eat people. What kind of vampire would I be if I didn't?"

"What do you do when you're not eating people?"

"Parker and I keep a very rigorous water aerobics schedule, knit sweaters for the homeless, and—"

"Why don't you want to tell me?"

"Because it's horribly dull, what I do." I sighed. "I own my own company."

"Never would have guessed that."

"Yes, well, maybe you've heard of it? Ross Industries."

"Wait. You own R.I. Global? _You?_"

I nodded glibly. "I used to be the public face, company image, and all that, but with all the leaps in technology in the past fifty years—TV, photography, Internet, what have you—it became more difficult to hide the fact that I don't age."

"But that company's worth—"

"Billions, yes I know. I've seen the quarterlies."

"So you must make . . ."

"Six figures easy."

"What do you do with it all?"

"Oh, this and that. Parker seems to think a little philanthropy is good for my soul so I subscribe to a number of charities."

"I'm just trying to figure out if you really are what they say you are."

"And what do they say I am?"

He shrugged and wouldn't say.

He slept better the second night.

The next morning I found him in the library. He was pouring over several volume spread out in front of him, his back to me, his sleeves pushed up to his elbows. Upon his discovery of the library he had A. yet to leave it, and B. immediately descended on my Netherworld collection, a dim corner dedicated to everything I could find about vampires and werewolves and all manner of preternatural creatures.

He hadn't heard me come in. I crept up behind him silently—and then, even as I was opening my mouth to make my presence known, I saw it. There on his left forearm.

"Lucas." —He nearly jumped out of his skin— "What is that?"

"Nothing." He made a hasty attempt to pull down his sleeve but I'd already pinned his hand in my own. I knew what it was. The Mark. Crevan's Mark, to be exact, the thing that set his Theins apart from the lesser clans: a pentacle, branded onto his skin like he was just a head of cattle.

"A damn bit more than nothing, I should think! Why didn't you tell me you were Marked?"

He wrested his arm free, tugged at his sleeve. "You knew I'd been initiated. What difference does it make? I'm cursed with or without it."

I snatched at his arm again, held it up to the light. I couldn't say why it riled me so. The Mark was just another empty symbol, like the Cross or Star of David; it held power only to those who believed in it—and perhaps those who feared it.

"If it makes no difference why take the trouble to hide it?"

He had no answer. There was no further word on the subject of his Mark. Luke preferred the term "scar" and would, in time, come to resent even that.

* * *

><p>Another week come and gone means another week closer to the not-anywhere-near-being-done Chapters 14-18. I have no excuse. Other than everything I write seems wrong. My life would be easier if only I didn't care if my characters wandered about aimlessly without any plot or believable development. Lucky for you, I do care. Just not enough to write anything new. . . #true story.<p>

So, some of you have probably been wondering "Where are all the Twilight characters? This is a Twilight fanfic, is it not?"

Allow me to answer: It is not. It's better than that. Ha. Just kidding. They'll be in later.


	12. Chapter 10

**Chapter 10**

I couldn't get the image of his scar out of my mind. Why hadn't he told me? I knew so much already, couldn't he trust me enough to—Ah, that was it wasn't it? He didn't trust me enough. I hated when Marcus was right. No matter. He would come to trust me in time.

"Kai, you're staring at me. Again."

"I was thinking."

"Think in another direction. I'm trying to read." He ruffled his morning paper.

"Touchy today, aren't we? Well, I suppose it is—"

"Don't say it."

"—that time of the month."

He glowered. I grinned.

"Has Parker shown you the room yet? Do you like it? Does it need anything else?"

He didn't look up from his article. "Like what? Crayons and a puzzle"

"How should I know? I thought you might like some rabbits to chase. I've a goat, I think."

"Oh." He looked confused for a moment, like he hadn't quite expected that.

A silence followed.

"Can I watch?"

"Watch?"

"Yes."

"No."

"Please?"

"No."

"But why?"

"Because it's private. No. Rabbits, yes. But not you."

I did watch.

At sundown Parker saw to it that Luke was safely tucked away in the old shed and I crept round to the southeast corner to peer through the crack I the foundation. It was . . . well, I don't find it necessary to describe what I saw. The change was gruesome and cringe-worthy as anything you see in movies. It turned my stomach to see Luke's body torn apart from the inside by this creature, this white wolf. And I couldn't help but think—for the hundredth time—that this was all my fault. I couldn't stand to watch after that. It made me sick to my stomach to leave him, sick to know he had to go through this alone, but what could I have done?

"Are you sure you want to keep him, sir?"

Parker was there in my study waiting for me with a glass of—

"Blood, Parker? You shouldn't have." I drank it gratefully, not bothering to ask where it came from.

"I feel I must remind you—"

"Oh, don't worry about me, Parker. Who's to say the Council ever has to know?"

"But sir—"

"Why don't you take the night off? I'm sure I can manage on my own for one evening."

A look crossed his face I had never seen before. "Permission to speak freely, sir?"

"No. Leave."

"You're making a mistake. I see the way he looks at you."

I looked up from my drink. "How that, Parker?"

"It's not the same way you look at him."

"And what, pray tell, does that mean?"

"Sir, if I may—"

"You may not."

The stubborn old man wouldn't back down. "This fling won't end well. I've watched dozens of men and women pass through these halls over the years. And I've sat quietly by because I knew they were stupid and harmless. But you seem blinded to the fact that that _boy_ is a dangerous—"

"You forget your place, Parker," I cut in hotly. "I pay you to fetch my slippers and clean up after my parties. Not dispense fatherly advice when it isn't wanted. Leave. Now. Come back when you've had time to think about what you've said."

He opened his mouth as if to say more—God knows what stopped him—but he closed it again, gave one last disgruntled bow and left.

I glared after him. How dare he take such liberties! How dare he suggest—! Didn't he realize—?

.

It was a long sleepless night, to say the least.

Come sunrise, when I felt it safe enough to venture out, I crept into the re-purposed garden shed, unlatched the cellar door, and descended the darkened steps with breakfast. The morning light cast an eerie glow on Luke's still-sleeping form. Parker was mad, surely, I reasoned, how could anything so angelic be dangerous? Ill-tempered, maybe, but not dangerous. I set the tray of toast and coffee beside his head, draped a robe over him, and turned to make my stealthy escape.

"Don't you have anything stronger?" he mumbled in lieu of good morning.

I stopped at the foot of the stair, couldn't quite bring myself to turn around and face him. "I see the rabbits are gone. How were they?"

"Furry."

"What's it like?"

He looked up at me critically as he slipped into his robe. I thought I saw something shift in him. His dark eyes were suddenly calculating. Cold. Distant—but then his gaze shifted, slid past me like I was no more noteworthy than the stone walls or dirt floor. I hoped I only imagined it.

He changed the subject. "Where's Parker?"

"Why? Do you already prefer him to me?"

"Kai, don't do that. Look, sorry. I still appreciate it—and the toast." He ate some. "I thought you assigned him dog duty, is all."

"I gave him the night off."

"Is he incapable of unlocking a door?"

I stared. "I thought—"

"And _I_ thought I made myself perfectly clear last night. I don't want you involved in this. It's nothing personal."

"No, of course not. Your own private hell. How would I know anything about that?"

"You know I didn't mean it like that. This is hard enough for me without you fetching my robe that morning after. I'll meet you up at the house, all right?"

* * *

><p>Certainly took me long enough. :P At least it's two for the price of one this week! That's some good news.<p> 


	13. Chapter 11

**Chapter 11**

Parker did not return for three days.

"And where, might I ask, have you been?" I demanded when I walked into the kitchen to find him preparing tea. He seemed perpetually preparing tea.

"Atoning for my misconduct, sir. I spoke out of turn and for that I am deeply sorry. It was not my place to meddle in your affairs with the werewolf."

That caught me off guard; Parker never apologized unless threatened. "You will be civil and courteous to Luke from now on?"

"So long as the master wishes."

I found his answer satisfactory and sent him on his way with my blessing.

Later that same evening there was a knock at the door.

"Who is it, Parker?"

"A man to see you, sir."

"Well? Send him in."

"I thought it best for him to wait outside."

I was immediately put on guard. My doors were open to everyone, Parker knew that. That he should deny this man entry meant only one thing: vampire. You see, the old wives tale about vampires being unable to enter a house without invitation isn't entirely untrue. It's not that we're physically unable as it is just plain rude. And you certainly don't go barging uninvited into another vampire's lair unless you're looking to start something. I knew the man when I saw him. Not personally, but well enough to know he was the errand boy for the Council and having him show up at your door was never good news.

Parker was right to keep him out.

"Can I help you?"

"Malakai Ross?"

"And you are?"

He reached into his jacket and pushed an envelope into my hands. "You've been summoned."

"E-excuse me?"

But he had gone.

I was left staring blankly between the space he had vacated and the envelope in my hand before I remembered how to open it.

_To Mr. Malakai Ross:_

_It has come to our attention that you are in noncompliance with Code 2419, Section 5, Aiding and Abetting an Enemy of the State. You have twenty-four hours in which to turn in the fugitive. Failure to do so will result . . ._

The letter went on but I stopped reading.

"Parker!" I shouted. "Parker! Get in here!"

"Yes, sir?" He appeared behind me.

I flourished the letter. "What is this?"

"I'm sure I don't know, sir."

"Oh, don't give me that you miserable wretch of a man. How dare you go to them behind my back! Do you have any idea what you've done?"

"I'm sure I don't know, sir. Perhaps if you would let me read the letter I could be of more use to you."

I shoved it at him.

"I see," he said when he had finished and handed it back. "I suppose you will have to go to them."

"Like hell."

"In that case, I'm sure ignoring their request will be equally effective."

"Don't patronize me, you miserable sod. I should have you whipped for your insubordination. Strung up by your toes. Something."

"I doubt that that will resolve your problem with the Council."

"A problem _YOU CAUSED_!"

"What's all this?"

I looked above us to see Luke peering down at us over the stair railing. He was in his night clothes, his hair disheveled. Our row had roused him.

"Nothing. Parker and I are just having a private chat."

"Not very private is it?"

"It's nothing," I said again.

"If it's nothing, would you mind lowering your voice? I was trying to sleep."

I felt myself nod involuntarily.

Parker made a noise that sounded suspiciously like a snort. "He'll have you pushing the baby next."

"We'd have to have a baby first, you twat," I snapped back. "Second, you are forbidden to speak another word for the rest of the week. Third, get out of my sight before I do something I won't regret. Like rip off your arms. How would you like to be armless? Now, if you don't mind, I've a plane to catch."

Not twelve hours later I was standing before the Three, feeling not at all happy to be there.

The Three are known by many names, most designed to strike fear into the hearts of lesser beings. And with good reason. The Three are a scary bunch. Henceforth, to keep some mystery alive, I shall refer to them as follows: The King. The Antichrist. And Marcus.

The King is just that—the King of all vampires. (Sure, everyone pretends the Three share equal power, but no one is fooled.) King's a small guy. Dark hair and eyes, looks about twenty though I'm fairly certain he was around before Jesus Christ. There's actually a legend that says it was King who bribed Judas to betray the Savior—but it's just a legend. He's a narcissistic sociopath, a sadist, and a power-hungry tyrant with, if the rumors are true, some voyeuristic tendencies. He's also a pathological liar. I've never much cared for him, but for reasons unknown he took a liking to me the moment we met. Over the years I've learned how to manipulate this little fact to get whatever I wanted from him.

What I wanted now was Luke. Alive, preferably.

There was just one problem: the Antichrist.

The Antichrist is taller, younger, blonder, and also a lot meaner. He's the King's left-hand man and, for all intents and purposes, the Undead's Commander in Chief. What's more, he hates werewolves. And likes me even less.

Marcus was the only one of the Three I genuinely liked. He was a fair bit older than the other two. While they were still easily mistaken for boys, Marcus was quite clearly a man. He was already into his forties before someone (I think it was the King but I've never been clear on that) turned him in the 8th century. So, while technically he is the youngest, he affects the demeanor of someone much older. He's rational, reasonable, and kind—I honestly don't know why King keeps him around. (I have my theories, of course. Many include Marcus's deep knowledge of the King's secret cross-dressing pedophiling pursuits, something the King couldn't afford going public.) Anyhow, Marcus is like the laid back chaperon, only stepping in when the party gets really out of hand—I'm talking lighting each other on fire, out of hand.

The Three keep council in a small superstitious village in the Italian countryside, strategically placed at the center of the Old Empire (the territory we inhabited before our food began to migrate to the New World.) The fortress has long since passed its prime. Ironically, our efforts to restore it to its former glory have been unable to compete with the passage of time.

"Makki, how nice to see you again," drawled the King. "It's been too long."

"I'm sure I don't know what this is about."

"Now, Makki, don't be like that. We heard it through the grapevine that you've taken in stray."

"And what if I have?"

King laughed a little, a pitying sound. The others were oddly quiet. Even Marcus, who rarely said anything to begin with, was quieter than usual. "Surely you are aware we have law forbidding such a thing."

"Do we?"

"Perhaps it escaped your notice," said the Antichrist with a sneer, "but we are at war with the lycans. That you are harboring one in your home is treasonous and punishable by death. Hand him over or else."

I held back a snort. _Or else._

"Now, brother," said King, brushing Antichrist's remarks aside like lint off his lapel. "Let us not be hasty."

I cleared my throat. "If I may?"

"By all means, Makki."

"I am not harboring a lycan." I knew I was skating on thin ice with this one, but it was the only move I had.

All three looked at me in surprise, King most of all. "No?"

"Of course not. I'm not stupid. I believe you've been given misinformation. You see, my new companion is not a werewolf. He's only a half-breed."

There was a moment's pause—and then the Antichrist barked with laughter. "Do you mean to insult us! That you should even suggest—!"

"No, no. I mean nothing of the sort. Code 2419, is it? I looked into it, and while it does outlaw associating with werewolves, it says not a word about half-breeds."

The Antichrist made to interrupt, but King silenced him with a wave of his hand. "I want to hear this. Please, Makki, tell us why you think our laws do not apply to you."

"Half-breeds aren't true werewolves. Lycans themselves consider them second-class citizens."

"It's a technicality!" whined the Antichrist.

I was beginning to think the scales would not tip in my favor. If I couldn't convince King to let me keep Luke, where was he to go? More importantly, what was to become of him? I wouldn't forgive myself if they killed him—or worse, sent him back to Crevan.

Marcus's smooth baritone came to my rescue:

"Forgive the interruption, brothers, but I would like to remind us all that sometimes a technicality is everything. It is the difference between self-defense and assault. If we cannot uphold the letter of our own laws, perhaps we are not fit to pass judgment on them."

The Antichrist growled. "You would let him walk out of here a free man? Let him keep his new pet?"

"That is not what I said. A half-breed is still dangerous, yes, but as we have no legal right to detain either Mr. Ross or his pet, as you say, I cannot help but think we have no choice but to seek some middle ground."

King was grinning, something I liked less than his laugh. "I like this," he was saying, "Yes. All right, Makki. A compromise: You may keep your dog and your life, but only on the condition you keep him under control. The moment I hear of any unusual activity out of Essex, one or both of you are gone. Is that clear?"

I went and kissed the foot of his robe. "As always you are too magnanimous, Your Excellence."

The Antichrist groaned and stalked out. King followed, hoping to rub the verdict in his face, no doubt. And Marcus, though I expected him to give me a some sort of gesture of approval, looked the faintest bit uneasy.

"Malakai, if I could, I'd like a private word," he said in an undertone as I came to shake hands goodbye.

"Anything for you, Marcus, you know that."

His eyes were hard. "Are you sure about this? Your man, Parker, seemed quite distressed when he called."

"So it _was_ Parker! The sneaky bastard, I knew it!"

"Malakai, he did you a service. Had we found out about your furry friend later rather than sooner, not even I could have save your from the Antichrist's wrath. Lucky for you, your man had the presence of mind to let on that you had simply _found_ a werewolf and were unsure of what to do with it and so sent Parker along to seek help."

"Then why the cryptic letter?"

"You know King. Always a flair for the dramatic. He'll say anything to see you."

"I see I owe you more than I realize."

His mouth twinged. "That aside, are you sure about this? Even with King's blessing, you won't be fully protected. Should another vampire—"

"Should what? Kill him? In my territory? Marcus, I'm insulted you should even suggest such a thing."

"And what of the boy himself? How do you know you can trust him? Is it true what Parker said? Is he the White Wolf? If he did fake his own death and Crevan should learn of it and come after you, we will not be able to protect you. King will not meddle in Crevan's affairs. Not after—"

"I'll take my chances."

"He means that much to you?"

"I'm the reason he's like this in the first place. I'm the reason he can't see his family again. Don't I owe him at least this much?"

"Do you? Were he anyone else would you bother? Aren't you the reason dozens of people won't see their families each year? What of them?"

"This is different."

He sighed. "You cling to something that is out of your reach." I refrained from rolling my eyes. I knew what was coming: Marcus's Philosophical Tidbit of the Week. "You can never make him one of us, I hope you realize that. No matter how you might wish it, he can never be with you. He will always mistrust you. It is in his nature now."


	14. Chapter 12

**Chapter 12**

I tried to convince myself that Marcus was, well, dead wrong and what could he possibly know that I didn't? Luke wasn't dangerous Parker told me he'd hardly left the library since I'd gone. It made me uneasy, his reading all the time. Though I couldn't quite say why. I wasn't so much afraid of what he might find as I was

I convinced him to join me in London under the pretense of securing him a new wardrobe (what little he'd brought with him to Brookshire I found unbecoming for a respectable Englishman) but really I think I just wanted him away from those books.

He was a different person in London. I tell you, it was those books that did things to him. The further we were from them, the more agreeable he became. It was like Paris all over again; the timid curiosity and pleasant conversation. He was almost cheerful at times, a hint of the Luke I'd seen in Oxford, the young man who still had a touch of that schoolboy innocence and the unnatural ability to ignore women. I wondered from time to time if he was still ignorant of them.

"Kai, you're staring at me." I pulled myself out of my thoughts to find Luke looking at me in the mirror. He stood with his hands in the pockets of the best thing he'd had on in weeks. We were alone in the back parlor of some little shop, the tailor off finding a different color. "I told you I don't like this one. And I don't see why I need a suit at all. I've nowhere to wear it."

"Yet. Nowhere to wear it _yet._ A suit is—Don't roll your eyes at me like that. You'll wear what I give you and like it. Tell me, Lucas, when was the last time you had a woman? Rather, have you ever had one?"

"What's that got to do with buying a suit?"

"Nothing. I just wondered. A simple yes or no would suffice. I understand if you haven't, what with the whole werewolf—"

"Yes, though I fail to see why it matters to you, I have."

"Who was she?"

"Just some girl I dated before University. Is this really an appropriate conversation to be having here?"

"That's it? One girl four years ago? Well, shit, forget the clothes. We should be getting you laid. You know, I know a couple of—"

"I don't want a prostitute."

"—I was going to say single women from the local parish. I'll introduce you when we get back to Brookshire." Anything to keep him out of my books.

Her sultry smile, the luxuriant curls of her honey-colored hair, the womanly curves of her supple body. I knew at once I wanted her, had known all along, perhaps, that I would have her.

I touched Luke on the arm, looked sincere when he turned his head and said "I have to make a call. Go on ahead. I'll be ten minutes behind."

A frown marred his features but he nodded just the same and went out for a taxi without me. I waited to be sure he was gone, then turned once again toward the front desk—but the girl had gone.

There came the familiar ding of a lift opening and there she was, standing smugly beside the open carriage. I had the distinct impression she said something corny like "Going up?" and winked at me—It's what I would have done—but I don't believe she said anything.

I came at her quickly. Too quickly; I scared her. It didn't matter. The moment I smiled she was back under my spell.

I guided her gently into the lift, slipped my hand under her hair and slipped my teeth into her neck. I filled my mouth with her blood. Once. Twice. She gasped, struggled to free herself. Perhaps I was a bit cruel, drawing it out when she need not suffer. But I took my time; teasing the blood out of her like—ah, never mind the similes. For a few blissful moments I heard nothing but the sound of her terrified heart, felt nothing but the sweet flood of life down the back of my throat . . . Until a pair of strong hands seized me and threw me off her—or tried to. All Luke (I knew it was him; no human would have been strong enough) managed to do was jerk me enough so my teeth—still firmly sunk into her flesh—tore through the artery there. She was spurting blood in an instant; it ran down her blouse, her hands, the mirrored wall of the lift. She stumbled out of my grasp, tried to steady herself, and crumpled gracelessly to the floor instead.

I wrested free of Luke's grip and dropped beside her, my hunger quickly replaced with panic. I pulled out my pocket square with a flourish and pressed it to the gaping wound in a futile effort to staunch the bleeding. The delicate silk was soaked in seconds; it was all I could do not to lick my fingers.

"You've killed her!" Luke shrieked.

"Oh shut up," I hissed. "This is your own damn fault." I shot him a nasty look over my shoulder. "Do you want her to bleed out in the damn lift! Get in dammit! Take us up!"

He did, and in the silence that filled the small space I muttered nasty things under my breath. "Fucking idiot ruining a perfectly— The hell were you thinking? You can't just—"

"What the hell were _you _thinking!" he shouted back. "The damn lift? Anyone could have—"

"I know that, Luke, you ass! Lucky it was you. Anyone else would be dead by now! We'll be lucky if _she _isn't by the time this damn—"

"So what if she is? You'd have killed her anyway."

"Really, Luke? I'd have sucked the hotel receptionist dry and left her empty husk in the lift to be discovered by the janitor? Really? I'd have done that? Jesus, Luke, give me more credit than that."

I returned my attention to the girl and swore. I was going to have to—but I hated to do it. No, there was no other way, I told myself. She would surely bleed to death otherwise. With great resignation I bit through the pad of my thumb and pressed my open cut to hers. The effects were instantaneous; the gash sealed without a trace.

"How did you—?"

"Magic," I snapped, still very much upset with him. I wouldn't have been able to explain it any better, angry or not. I had no idea why vampire blood healed human wounds, only that it did.

The lift spit us out at our floor a moment later. I hoisted the unconscious girl into my arms like a groom might his bride and set out quickly down the hall, Luke tailing behind.

"What are we going to do with her?"

"Get the door," I ordered and swept past into the darkened suite. "And _we_ are not doing anything. _You_ are to clean up the mess you made while _I—_"

"Me? Why do I have to do it? How?"

I lay the girl on top of the bedclothes. "That's not my problem, Luke. Just don't half-ass it."

He hovered uneasily by the bureau.

I glanced back at him. "Be a dear and bring back some ice, would you?" I asked as politely as I could. "There are towels in the loo; use those."

He made no indication he had heard but disappeared only to reemerge a moment later with an armful of fluffy white towels and a nasty glare.

I don't know what he was so upset about. I'd given him the easy task. I was the one who had to come up with a believable explanation as to how and why she had come to be unconscious in my suite—if she ever awoke. Ah, but chances of that were good. Her breathing had stabilized and her heart didn't sound so strained, though it was just as faint. Although . . . She had lost quite a bit of blood. I'd got about a liter out of her before Luke interfered and there was at least that much smeared across lift, not to mention her clothes.

Shit. How was I going to explain the blood? I could always lick it off her . . . I shivered at the thought. No, I was supposed to be saving her life, not—I caught myself doing it anyway and snapped myself out of it . . . The temptation was almost too great. But I knew it would be just my luck for Luke to walk in on us in the middle of things. And then he would really hate me.

Her shirt would just have to go, I decided. I rinsed it until the water ran clear. Her suit coat, too, and my pocket square for good measure. I hung them all across the lip of the tub to dry, washed the blood from her skin with a damp cloth. My head was clearer after that.

Now for an alibi.

She accompanied me back to my room (easy enough to believe. I could seduce anyone with my good looks and charm—except Luke. He seemed only to be attracted to my bad jokes) and . . . slipped and fell in the bathroom? But what was she doing in there? And how had the floor gotten wet? There could have been a leak . . . Or maybe we were going to shower together. But was she the showering type? Maybe she just really had to piss? But that didn't explain how she fell— Christ! What did it matter?

I stripped off her clothes, leaving only her bra and panties. The rest—her sensible shoes, skirt, pantyhose—I littered artistically about the room. Then, thinking it unfair that I should be dressed when she wasn't, I started on my own clothes. I pulled out my shirt tails and was just getting to my belt when Luke came tramping in.

He stopped short, a few bloodied towels under one arm, a bucket of ice in the other. "The fuck are you doing?"

"Undressing. What does it look like?" I put my hands in my hair and mussed it for good measure.

"Look like? It looks like you're about to rape a—"

I broke out laughing. "Luke. Darling. Have you seen me? I'm hardly wanting for willing volunteers. Rape is for the less attractive masses. Ice, please."

He thrust the bucket at me, looking utterly disgusted, and stormed off to his rooms.

"Thank you!" I shouted after him.

I set the ice by the bedside, raided the minibar for what was left of the Vodka (Luke had gotten into it the night before) and snatched up the glass in the bathroom.

"I'm never doing this again," Luke growled, appearing suddenly in my doorway. "It's more than I signed up for."

I ignored this. "Have you finished?"

He scowled. "Nearly. Do you know, I've just thought, aren't there cameras—"

"I'll worry about that later. That sort of thing is easy enough to fix."

He hovered still.

"Go on then," I urged gently. "We haven't got all night."

I turned to—we'll call her Jane. I'm sick of always referring to her as "the girl." I turned to Jane when Luke had gone (she was still very much unawares of the going-ons around her) and shook my head in dismay. "He certainly is a very silly werewolf, isn't he?" I cooed affectionately, knowing perfectly well she couldn't hear. "It's not my fault, you know. If Luke hadn't—well, what's done is done." I propped her up amongst the pillows. She was turning grayer by the second. I frowned, taking no pleasure in what I was about to do.

"Now, you don't want to die, do you? No, of course you don't. I wouldn't if I were you," I soothed, attending to the task a like at hand preparing for surgery. I tore the top off one of the tiny bottle, tipped the contents into the awaiting glass. "Lucky for you," I went on, "I plan on saving your life. You may thank me later, of course."

I brought my wrist to my mouth, hesitated a moment, but as I had no better alternative I had no choice. I tore my skin and watched indifferently as the dark red stuff mixed in the cup.

"You probably don't know this," I rambled on, "but vampire blood is, well, a cure-all for practically anything. It's even effective for preventing death in situations like these. Trick is not to let the amount of my blood in your system exceed the amount of yours. Otherwise there's a very good chance you'll end up like me—and trust me, you don't want that." I trailed off, quite forgetting myself. ". . . So, the Vodka, I've found, acts as a sort of catalyst. It lets you do more with less. Usually."

I tipped the concoction down her throat and waited.

Her skin flushed with new color, her heart quickened. She'd hardly drunk half when her eyes fluttered open.

"Sweetheart," I cooed. "Darling. Wake up." I let out a very convincing sigh of relief. "Goodness. You gave us quite a fright."

Her hazy eyes found my face. She studied me uncertainly before she recognized me. Her eyes filled with fear. She tried to push my hands away, tried to move her legs as if she thought she could simply get up and leave.

I pushed her back gently. "There, there darling. You took a nasty spill in the powder room, hit your head. Best to take it easy for a bit." I pressed the glass to her lips. "Here, this should help. There's a good girl," I praised when the glass was drained. "I'll get some more. Stay here."

Her eyes, no longer fearful, followed my movements like a dog might a benevolent master, hoping for a few more table scraps, no doubt.

There was a noise behind me and I turned to see Luke, looking rather pale himself.

"Ah, there you are," I said and smiled.

He did not return the gesture.

"Watch her a moment, will you."

He wouldn't, but followed me instead.

"Must you look at me like that?" I asked, pausing by the sofa.

"You've done this before, haven't you?"

"No," I said, feigning ignorance. "This is the first time I've touched her."

"Not that. This. Staging an accident."

I glowered. "Would you rather I kill her? I find that so unimaginative."

He rolled his eyes, "Never mind," and wandered away.

Three hours later, a fully dress and revived Jane (that turned out to be her real name) was leaving with clean clothes and one hell of a story. It took some time to erase the evidence on the security tapes, but by four o'clock that morning Luke and I were once again tucked safely away in our respective rooms. I'd just put on my reading glasses and opened my copy of _Dog Training for Dummies _when I thought better of it and set the book aside. I got out of bed, tiptoed across the common room (a wholly unnecessary precaution but I did it just the same) and knocked softly at Luke's door.

* * *

><p>Another week has come and gone and I'm still no closer to finishing Chapter 14. Two weeks yet remain!<p> 


	15. Chapter 13

**Chapter 13**

I could see the light was on under the door. I knocked again and when nothing happened, let myself in. He was sitting up with a bottle of gin and reading (pretending to) yesterday's _Times_.

"Can I come in?"

"Looks like you already are."

"You've every right to be upset with me."

"I'm not."

"It was wrong of me to suggest any of it could have been your fault."

"Really, I'm not—Are you apologizing to me?" He looked up from his paper, a mix of awe and disbelief in his eyes.

I pretended not to hear. "And let's be honest, I'd have tried the same if the roles had been reversed. I just don't want you to think . . ."

"Think what? That you're some cold blooded killer?"

"Yes."

"But you are, aren't you?"

"It . . . is in my nature, yes. And that's what I want to talk to you about."

"I don't see as there's anything to talk about."

"I do." I walked uncertainly into the room, stood at the foot of the bed, pressing my knees into the folds of the comforter.

"And I don't. I know what vampires do. It startled me, that's all." I knew he was lying. I knew it had scared him more than he would admit, but I saw it in his eyes, saw the wall he was lowering inch higher. He was distancing himself from me already.

"But—"

"Kai, please. Change the subject or leave."

I didn't want to leave. "Can I join you?"

"No."

I took that as a yes and flopped myself down beside him. I held out my arms to him until he rolled his eyes and shoved a pillow at me. I hugged it a moment, thinking. "We had fun this weekend didn't we?"

"I wouldn't exactly call it fun," he said, idly turning the pages of his paper.

"Well, at least you got some respectable clothes out of it."

"Yes, I imagine Burberry will be sending you a thank you."

_But never one from you_, I thought. Two weeks was all it took for me to notice Luke never said "thank you." Not when it mattered, not to me. I shook off the thought and managed to laugh a little. Then I remembered "We never had dinner did we! Well, I did, but you—"

"I think I've rather lost my appetite, thanks."

We lapsed into silence. I stared at the ceiling, wondering what he must think of me.

"Can't we talk?"

"Kai," he warned.

"I think it's a mistake if we don't. This is uncharted territory for me, for both of us. I've never really had a . . . non-vampire companion before."

"You eat them all, no doubt."

I made a face at him. "I meant I've never revealed my true nature to a mortal before. Except Parker and he doesn't count. I have never considered—until this moment—how terrifying it must be."

He folded his paper neatly in his lap, looked at me for the longest time. "Why on earth are you wearing those glasses?"

I threw them aside. "Luke, please! It's hard enough for me to speak candidly about this without you being . . . whatever. Look."

"You're serious aren't you?"

"When am I not?"

"Er, every other time you open your mouth?"

I rolled away from him, very dramatically, and hugged the pillow to my chest. "You wound me."

"All right then. I'll play. Why didn't you kill her? It looked like you would. And I am sorry for, er, interrupting. I saw you and, I dunno."

"No, it wasn't your fault. Ah, let's see, I haven't really killed anyone since 1940. I just . . . rather lost interest in it."

"Lost interest in doing what vampires do? I thought you said—"

"I met a woman—isn't that how it always starts?—in Morocco."

"Kai?"

I blinked a few times. I hadn't realized I'd stopped talking. "Where was I?"

"You met a woman in Morocco."

"In 1941. She was . . . God, she was exquisite," I trailed off again, lost in memory.

"Let me guess. She showed you the value of life, did she?"

"She altered the very fabric of my _soul_."

"Some woman."

"Shut up. For three days I loved her. And then." I paused. "She was hit by a bus."

". . . Figuratively?"

"No. Literally. A literal bus literally hit her as she was literally crossing the street after literally not looking both ways twice. You always look both ways twice!"

"Were you there when it happened?"

"No. I was . . . I don't remember. And then I was standing over her in the morgue, staring into her lightless eyes and I remember thinking 'What right have I to end a life when they're perfectly stupid enough to do it themselves.'"

"No you didn't," he said, almost laughing.

"I did, actually. And really, why bother? Why waste the energy disposing of a body when you can leave them half-way through and let them run into traffic on their own?"

"Sounds like she did quite a number on you."

"You've no idea." I stared up at the ceiling and sighed. "Besides, a dead body is so unimaginative. I like the challenge of creating absurd scenarios for my patrons once they wake."

"Most, I imagine, have something to do with shagging you."

I shook my head. "Muggings mostly. I enjoy going through their things."

"You know, it's hard for me to tell when you're joking."

I turned on my side and looked seriously at him.

He smiled in return, kind but distant, and all he could say was "I suppose that's rather unorthodox for a vampire."

To which I chuckled and replied "Please. I invented the word."

To which we both laughed far too hard for far too long—I contributed it to the hour—and I felt much better afterward. Even if I hadn't said all I wanted. I'd wanted to tell him he had nothing to fear from me, that what had befallen the girl in the elevator could never happen to him. I wanted to say these things, but I didn't.

"All right," he said when we'd settled down. "I've one other question: Why haven't you ever told anyone? That you're a vampire, I mean."

"It's not really something—"

"No, I know that. But no one? Not one single person in your exceptionally long life have you ever trusted with your secret?"

"No. Never." It was the truth. Unless I counted Parker, but somehow I never did.

"I don't know much about vampire nature, but isn't that what they do? Find a human to keep their darkest secrets? Maybe you ought to, too."

I said nothing in reply, too busy thinking he was right. It wasn't uncommon for vampires to take a human confidant every now and then. Maybe I ought to, too. Maybe Rachel could be it.

"Ask me something else," I demanded, hating to end our chat on such a somber note.

"Can't I sleep now? Please."

"Oh . . . Yes, well, I suppose I can't prevent you from doing that."

He reached to shut off the bedside lamp, the paper spilling out of his lap onto the floor. For a few moments it was dark and still. Then he cleared his throat. "You're not invited."

"What? No. Don't kick me out. Please. I'll just crawl back when you're asleep."

"Is that what you've done all the other nights?"

"Ye-No. No," I said firmly. "Please can't I stay? If I go, you'll be up half the night worrying when I'll try to sneak in again."

He was quiet a moment. "Touch me and you're dead."

I laughed gayly. "I am already dead."

"Luke," I whispered when the quiet became too much.

"I was nearly asleep," came the mumbled reply.

"Sorry, never mind."

"I'm awake _now_."

I turned to him, hoping to find his eyes in the dark but he wasn't looking at me. I hesitated. "I . . . I wouldn't hurt you, you know."

He laughed through his nose. "What a thing to say."

"How do you mean?"

"Nothing, Kai. It just struck me as funny, your timing and all. Never mind."

"Timing?" I didn't understand what he meant.

"Never mind."

"Tell me."

He heaved a sighed. "Timing: You waiting until you're in bed with me to tell me something like that. It's just—"

"I didn't mean it like that."

"I'm sure you didn't. It was just funny, that's all. Never mind. Forget it."

"I only meant—"

"I know how you meant it."

"But—"

"Kai, honestly—No. You know what? I'm evoking the Silent Game. Next one to talk owes the other a thousand pounds. Go."

"But Luke—"

"One thousand."

"Can't I—"

"Two."

"—call a—"

"Three."

"—time out?"

"For four thousand pounds? Sure. Thirty seconds."

"You're awfully mean, do you know that?" I whispered furiously.

"Only when provoked."

"So this is my fault, is it?"

"Yes, it is. You're the one who brought it up in the first place. Twenty seconds, by the way."

"I only brought it up because—! However immoral or unnatural my behavior may be, there's nothing I can do to change it. Which is why I wanted to talk about it in the first place. I need to know that you understand and can tolerate—even if you don't agree with or approve of—this part of my life."

"The part where you maul people in the lift?"

"Occasionally maul, and yes. Within certain parameters. All negotiable, of course."

"Christ," he muttered. The next moment he was out of bed and switching on the light in the toilet. I could see him leaning with his hand braced against the sink, looking paler than usual. "I thought we already had this conversation."

"I'm only trying to think how this must feel from your perspective," I called, propping myself up on my elbows. "I've never done this before."

"You keep saying that."

"Because it keeps being true! I don't know what's come over me. I'm not usually so frank."

"No," he laughed, and I could feel the sarcasm—or is derision the word?—in his voice. "Because usually you're just so cryptic and vague."

"I am. Just not around you," I said testily, suddenly angry again. "It's not my fault. You have this effect on me."

"So now this is _my_ fault. That's brilliant."

"It's no one's—See. Now you're upset and I've no idea why."

"Really? None?" he asked in that way people do when something is so inherently obvious to them they naturally assume it's just as obvious to everyone else. He darkened the doorway, leaning against its frame with his arms crossed over his chest.

I think I may have actually cowered in fear. But I kept enough wits about me to retort "No, none at all. You've yet to reveal your reasoning to me on anything. How should I know how I've offended you this time? Tell me and I won't do it again."

"Out."

"What?"

"Out," he said again with a tone of finality. "Get off of my bed and get out of my room."

I lingered defiantly, clutching his sheets as if they would protect me. I even glared.

Luke didn't waver.

With an over-exaggerated sigh of defeat, I pulled the comforter around me like Mother Teresa, cast a miserable look Luke's way, and made to quit the room.

"Give that here."

I paused at the door, very dramatically, mind, turned my head (still encased in the quilt)—also very dramatically, and said, quite foolishly, "Make me."

He did make me.

Actually, it was more like I saw him rush at me and surrendered. Werewolves are scary right before a full moon.

"I hate you," I muttered over my shoulder as I sulked away in defeat.

"Likewise," he growled back and slammed the door.

I sulked all the way back to my room, fishing around in my wallet for the money I owed Luke (I hated the damn Silent Game), when I happened upon a phone number scratched on the back of a receipt for a cafe in Johannesburg.

Rachel.

I'd been meaning to call her.

I called her now.

She didn't remember me at first, at least pretended she didn't, which I found utterly refreshing in an odd sort of way. "_Oh_," she said in that halting voice of hers, the tiniest trace of Midwest. "How could I forget _you_." And she laughed her dazzling, sparkling laugh. "I'd almost given up hope. Are you in town? Do you want to meet me for a drink? I've got an early class tomorrow, but I could spare an hour or two."

"I would like nothing more, but I'm afraid I'm calling from London."

"Isn't it like 5 A.M. over there?"

"Very nearly."

"Can't sleep, huh?" There was that tone of amusement again. I wasn't quite sure what she found so amusing, but I was determined to find out.

"Couldn't if I wanted to," I murmured.

I apologized for not calling sooner, stressed how I'd wanted to, and explained what had prevented me. I left out the part about Luke being a werewolf, and I downplayed the three years of kidnap and enslavement. But I told her everything else. I hadn't planned to; she always seemed to ask just the right question at just the right time and, just like with Luke, I found it impossible to resist her. I told her of his sleep patterns, his appetite, his reclusive (though warming) countenance, his skittishness toward new people, everything except the tiny, inconsequential fact that he turned into a bloodthirsty wolf each month and how I was pretty certain it broke his soul a little more each time. Before I knew it a whole hour had passed.

"That's terrible," she said when I finished. "He's better now though, I hope."

I nodded, remembered she couldn't see me and said "I think so."

She sighed. "Sorry. I didn't mean to pry."

"That's quite all right. I didn't mean to talk so long."

"You sounded like you needed to," she said simply and my heart filled with so much love for her I could scarcely speak. "Besides," she went on flippantly, determined to make it "no big deal"—and perhaps it wasn't— "I'm usually the one doing the talking. And I don't think you're wrong, by the way. I'd have done the same thing."

I changed the subject, afraid I might tell her too much if we went down that road again. "How is school treating you?"

She sighed a very noisy sigh. "I miss Johannesburg already. Just finished this paper though so you're timing is excellent. Hold on a sec. I'm going to get in my pjs."

"You mean to say you're undressing and I'm not there to help?"

"Ha ha ha. You would be so lucky." Her voice was distant, perhaps from the other side of what I imagined was a messy dorm room.

"What are you wearing?" I asked lazily, not expecting an answer.

"Right now? Nothing." Then she added, after thinking about it a moment, "Care to join me?"

"Yes."

"Wait, really? Cause I just got—ow—dressed. Next time though, definitely."

"Definitely."

There was a rustling of bedclothes and suddenly her voice was nearer. "You know, I—Shit. Hold on. Be right back." Moments later she returned. "Anyway, what was I saying?"

"I think you were about to offer me phone sex," I said, hoping she wouldn't take offense to such a brazen suggestion, hoping she might call me out for my cheek.

"Right," she said, as if that really was what she had been about to say. "If I didn't have an 8 A.M. class, I'd be all for it, but—"

"Hang on. Were you really—?"

"You'll never know now." She gasped. "Oh my god, did I tell you?"

"Tell me what?" I asked in alarm.

"That I broke up with my boyfriend."

"You never told me—"

"I know!"

"I would never have—"

"I know!"

"I don't understand. I only bought you lunch. No. You didn't even let me do that, did you?"

"I know, but I let you think I was single and I should have told you. It was so . . . so _wrong_. And I felt extra guilty because I _liked_ you. You and that accent . . ." She giggled. "Say something sexy. Please? For me?"

A smiled curled my lip. "Everything I say is sexy. It's a curse, I'm afraid. Did you really like me?"

She didn't answer. "And I was so sure you'd call. When you didn't I hated you for losing me a perfectly good boyfriend."

"I can apologize if it will make you feel any better."

"I'll feel better when you come visit me. I can't wait forever, you know. I've already had four proposals since I broke up with whatshisname."

"And?"

"And!" she repeated loudly, flustered and excited. "Five's my lucky number! So if you don't—"

"Friday. Whenever you want."

". . . Really?"

"Yes, really! Of course, really! We'll have dinner, fly kites in Central Park!"

She giggled. "Central Park is in New York."

"Whatever park is in Chicago, then! What do you say?"

"Hmm. Perhaps." I knew she was pretending to think about it. "Can I pick you up at the airport? I've never picked anyone up at an airport before."

"Is it your dearest wish?"

"It is."

"Then I will certainly permit you to pick me up at the airport."

"Oh, why thank you."

We said our good nights.

"Or good morning in your case," she amended.

I didn't know it just then—I hoped and wished but didn't know it—but she was exactly what I needed.

* * *

><p>Another week gone, another week closer to the end. Trouble is that once again I've hit a wall. Chapter 14 always seems to take a wrong turn. But there's still time, right? And some of the later chapters are already complete. So that's good news. Better news: next week is the half way mark!<p> 


	16. Chapter 14

**Chapter 14**

"I've given it a lot of thought and I've decided you can take me to Arami. They have the best eel in the city."

That was the first thing out of her mouth when she met me at the airport. Not "Hello," or "Good to see you again," but "Buy me food." I couldn't help a smile.

"I can, can I?" I said as I bent to kiss her hello. "Thank you. How generous."

"You're welcome," she said with a grin and a wink, a trademark of hers.

She led me out to her waiting car; a Ford Focus, as practical as everything else she owned, and I found myself enjoying her company already; the humanness of it all, how perfectly ordinary she was. She drove me to my hotel, lounged on my mattress while I washed the stench of travel from my face. We held hands on the lift down, Rachel deftly slipping out of my fingers when the lift opened on the lobby. We weren't going far, so we left her car and walked.

It was a strangely wonderful evening.

Dinner was superb (Yes, I do still eat when the occasion necessitates) and although I'm usually not one for eel, Rachel didn't exaggerate. She never did—not about food, at least. Rachel herself was enchanting. I couldn't even tell you why. It was just this impression I was left with at then end of the evening. Maybe it was the way she couldn't stop grinning when she thought I wasn't looking. Or how sure she was when she spoke, like everything she said was on purpose, meant something. Or maybe it was the way she spit a mouthful of cold sake in my face before our eel rolls arrived.

"I'm so sorry," she gasped, doubled over in horrified giggles as I, laughing too, mopped my face with my napkin. That's another thing I loved about her: her ability to laugh at her mistakes, her perpetual need to make it "no big deal" (though I think deep down she was just as terrified as the rest of us.) "It surprised me; I was expecting it to be water, I think. You, ah, missed a spot." And before I had moved, she leaned across the table and smudged it away with her thumb.

I just stared at her,dazed. "You're fantastic."

She returned to her seat with a smirk. "Tell me something I don't know."

She really was though. I'd never met a girl like her. Before or since.

Perhaps that's why I haven't, after all these years, been able to explain her, why I sought her company and what she really meant to me. It was like we were both swept along by some swift and happy current that, at least on that first night, deposited us on her doorstep. I didn't expect her to invite me in, and she didn't disappoint. I didn't mind, for some reason, and was only going to kiss her goodnight, thank her for a lovely time, and call her tomorrow, but when our lips met it was every cliché in the book. Sparks flew. Fireworks popped behind my eyes. It was magic. It was . . . It was strange.

This sort of thing didn't happen. Not to me.

We broke apart. She teetered a little on the spot and I knew that she had felt the same thing behind that kiss.

"When can I see you again?" I heard myself ask.

She laughed, a low throaty sound. "Any time."

"Tomorrow?"

"Yes." Her answer was breathless and blissful.

We made vague plans, I gave her one more lingering kiss good night. We parted ways.

It was puzzling to me how interesting I found her. It was puzzling to her, too, although probably for different reasons. It was puzzling to me because most of the women I took up with I couldn't have cared less about what their fathers did or their plans after college or their past boyfriends. Rachel's father had been in and out of local politics as long as she could remember; after college she planned to take some very well-deserved time off; as for ex-boyfriends, Rachel had only one: Robert, whom she never spoke of. She was exactly like any other disillusioned girl her age; she was pretty in the same way all young females are (though her blue eyes were unlike anything I'd ever seen); her life was marred by the same tragedies as everyone else's. And yet . . . I wanted to know her. And not just the things about her—her father, her boyfriends—I wanted to know her on the good days, the bad days, the days she loved me (which was inevitable in my mind), the days she almost did.

More importantly, though, I wanted her to know me in the same way.

I know what you're thinking. _You mad fool. You've only had one date. You haven't even shagged her yet. You can't possible be in love with her already._

But I was. I was starting to fall, at any rate. What other explanation was there to these things I was feeling. The things I wanted to do to her. The things I wanted to tell her.

"Then tell her already."

Luke was less than sympathetic when I told him all this over the phone that night. I could tell by his tone and the faint _thwick_ of pages turning on his evening paper, that he wasn't really taking this seriously. That he thought this was just some weird kind of vampire puppy-love. That my feelings were no deeper than a thirteen-year-old girl.

I flung myself onto the mattress in my hotel room, let out a very dejected, angst-ridden sigh. "We've barely just met."

"Then don't tell her," he said as if it were really that simple.

"It's not that simple."

"Maybe you're making it harder than it has to be."

If that was the case, it was only a matter of working up the nerve to say the words I'd never spoken to a mortal.

_Rachel, I'm a vampire._

_Rachel, before this goes any further, I think I should let you know I'm a vampire._

_Rachel, I have to tell you something. It's difficult for me to say this because I'm afraid of what you might think, but I don't want to keep this a secret. You see, I'm a vampire._

_Rachel, I know we've only just met, but . . ._

There was no way I was going to do this. It was too soon. What's more, Rachel was a rational girl; there was no way she would believe me. At best, she would be able to laugh it off, finish the date, and never call me again. At worst, she'd run screaming for the nearest shrink. At the rate I was going, I would have welcomed some professional help.

Instead, I went out for a drink and came back with a full stomach, a hazy head and a floral scarf with the name Jessica written on the tag. I tore it out and gave the scarf to Rachel.

And when she cinched it around her neck, played with the tasseled ends, all I could think of was the girl whose neck I had slipped it off of, her blood in my mouth, and how I did—and then didn't—want Rachel in the same way.

A pang of fear seized me as I realized that this thought had never occurred to me until now.

I knew then that I was in no state to be telling anyone anything. Especially not this sweet, naïve young woman.

So. Professional help it was.

"I never thought I'd live to see the day. Malakai Ross has a crush." Her silvery laugh echoed about the terrace of her country villa.

I'd left Rachel days ago and somehow ended up on the Amalfi Coast with Sophia, an ex-lover of sorts, instead of Brookshire.

I looked pitifully at her. She was Italian and looked it: a deep olive complexion, volumes of lustrous black curls, large dark eyes under an impossible number of lashes. Her lilting accent was enough to dredge up feelings from the past, feelings long forgotten. Though we had gone our separate ways decades ago, we kept up a friendly rapport, (as friendly as any two vampires can hope to have). On occasion, such as this one, I even went so far as to seek her counsel. She had nearly three hundred years on me and didn't look a day over forty. She knew all the tricks, all the best haunts and shared them with me, as well as her body. That was the extent of our relationship. For twelve years it worked, but she tired before I did and, well, life, as they say, goes on.

"Oh my," simpered my host. "You really do have it bad. My, my. I simply must meet her now."

"You know I can't allow that."

She smiled her provocative smile, leaned toward me, ran her hand up my thigh. "I can help you forget her, Mika," she said, purring my pet name like a jungle cat in heat.

I didn't doubt it. I'd had her enough to know that by the end of the week I wouldn't know who I was, let alone Rachel.

"It's not that simple."

She withdrew her hand. "Then tell me, how is she?" Her eyes flashed; it was a challenge.

"She is . . . a welcome distracted from the chaotic bits of my life." It was true, more or less. But Rachel was more than that, too. How much more I couldn't say.

She smiled knowingly. "You love her."

I dropped my gaze. "I am still unsure of that."

"It is all right, Mika," she said, as if soothing an injured child. "We all do it, even if we won't admit it. I loved a human once." Her tone softened. "Gaspard. Hardly seventeen when I found him half dead in the trenches." Her smile turned nostalgic then sad. "We loved each other fiercely for a time. He knew what I was and loved me all the more for it."

"What happened to him?" I asked when it was clear she would say no more.

"I had to let him go. We are not meant to love them forever. You will not always feel the way you do about this girl, though you may want to. Enjoy it while you can."

When she saw this did not comfort me she sighed in that empathetic way of hers and patted my hand. "Do you want to know why I saved him?"

I shook my head miserably, changed my mind, and nodded.

"I saved him because he reminded me of Nicolo, the man I loved when I was still human. The same way you reminded me of Gaspard. Perhaps this girl reminds you of someone, too?"

It wasn't really a question. Sophia knew all about Clara, the girl I had very nearly married before I joined the Undead. Clara. The girl I had tried not to think of for all these years. I'd been doing so well, too, what with Luke to worry after and . . . Why did Sophia have to bring her up now? She was right, of course; Rachel was a sort of replacement-Clara. If I was being honest with myself so was every other girl I had ever dated. Until I had wrung every last bit of Clara out of them, that is, whereupon I cast them off like a spent match. I just couldn't believe that's what I was doing to Rachel.

I've been dreading this because I knew it was inevitable, only a matter of time, that I couldn't keep Clara buried forever. Here's the short version:

When I was a boy, my father moved us out of the country to London where, shortly thereafter, I was introduced to the young girl living next door and my fate was sealed. I knew it from the very first moment I met her, when I was twelve and she was eight and I kissed her squarely on the mouth—and then again when she started crying. And I knew it in the heat of a disagreement (would she play Schumann or Beethoven?) when I blurted "I love you! Marry me!" She refused, saying we were too young. She was right, of course. She was only fifteen at the time. I asked her again at twenty, against my father's wishes. She said yes, but only after my father had approved the match. (She didn't want to be the wedge that drove us apart permanently and, quite frankly, I didn't want that for her either.) It was then that my mother's health took a dramatic turn for the worst. I left Clara in London to tend to my mother in Surrey. In no time at all, it seemed, we had to bury her. On my way back to seek solace in Clara's arms, a tall dark stranger offered to take me home and took my life instead.

After that it was over. I couldn't go back to her and yet couldn't stay away. The only thing I could do was driver her away. I was cruel; heartless; flirting with other women while she looked on; saying the most vulgar things; making her cry. I hated every minute of it, absolutely hated myself for shattering her heart. But it had to be done. She had to hate me as much as I hated myself. It was the only way I could find peace, I thought. I was prepared for her to hate me. I wasn't prepared for her to fall in love with another man. When that happened, the only logical thing to do was leave the country. I returned twenty years later expecting things to be different, or at least easier, but I was betrayed to find she had grown old without me.

I've been trying to replace her ever since. We all have someone we're trying to replace. Some people, like Sophia, are better at it than others.

"You know," she was saying, "I was a little surprised when you came seeking my advice on humans."

"How do you mean?"

She smiled kindly. "I sympathize with your troubles, Mika, truly I do, but you must admit your other companion is just a touch more interesting."

"How do you know about Luke?"

"Word gets around." She shrugged her slender shoulders. "It's a bit ambitious, don't you think, keeping both of them."

"It's not like that."

"It never is, is it?"

No, I thought darkly as I deplaned in London to a sullen Parker and a remarkably chipper Luke, it isn't. But thank you for putting those thoughts in my head. As if I hadn't been confused enough by our relationship already.

"Well?" Luke said amiably as Parker hefted my suitcase. "How did it go?"

I looked at him rather tragically. "I think I'm in love."

"Don't look so happy about it."

"Ah, good," was Parker's snide remark. "You two will have something to talk about on the drive home."

I looked quizzically between them.

Luke was grinning. "I met a girl."

Apparently, Luke had secured a job while I was away. Seasonal work on one of the county's larger farms because (also apparently) all it takes to qualify to operate a thresher is mention my name. And then, just as apparently, Luke secured a girl. He got himself down to Mass without me and met Holly, a silly but harmless redhead who was, well, certainly no Rachel. As he was going on and on about her I had this sudden and inexplicable surge of jealousy—or was it merely betrayal? What business did he have seeking fulfillment outside Brookshire? Didn't I provide him with everything he could want? Then, as the car crunched to a halt on the drive, I realized I was being a little hypocritical. Wasn't I doing the exact same thing seeking Rachel in Chicago?

"How about you, then?" He asked when he had run out of things to say. "When are you seeing this girl of yours again?"

Not soon enough, I realized.

I appeared outside her door the following week without warning. It was late and raining. She was in her nightclothes, her hair in braids, her face scrubbed clean. She wrapped her arms around my neck and, again, fireworks. I remember thinking _This is getting out of hand._

"You're back."

I couldn't quite tell if she was pleased by this so all I said was "Sorry I didn't call."

She only smiled, mentioned how cold I looked before leading me by the hand to her bedroom for some "warming up."

It was official. I was in love with this girl. Waking up the next morning with her beside me, auburn curls tangled on the pillow, I was almost certain of it.

I drifted off into that hazy twilight again, that almost-sleep, only to wake to the pressure of her delicate fingers on my cheek, their warmth as they ran down my chest to the place already hard with want. A sound escaped me that hadn't in, I shuddered to think, years. Come to think of it, I hadn't had morning sex in about that long either. I nearly groaned at the possibility.

She giggled. "Hi."

"Hullo," I grunted, blinking into her dazzling blue eyes.

"I think you should probably go."

"Go?" I repeated blankly.

"My roommate," she said by way of explanation. "I don't really want to explain this to her just yet."

I leaned in and kissed her. "Kicking me out without breakfast?"

She giggled again. "There's a Starbucks around the corner. And I'm serious! She'll be up any minute. I can't have you ruining my reputation."

I let out a sigh. She was a terrible tease, this girl; baiting me with her damn fingers and then—tossing my clothes in my face. I put them on grudgingly. "Shall I climb out the window?"

"Might be a tad overkill. And don't stand there sulking like that," she accused. "You're seeing me tonight aren't you? This is the best I can do when you show up unannounced at midnight. Now _go._"

"I'd've kicked you out, too," Luke said in that encouraging way of his over the phone.

"Thanks, that makes me feel better."

"Hey, you asked."

"Yes, but I didn't ask for honesty, did I?"

"I'd never do you the disservice of lying to you." He laughed. "Oh, come off it. So what if she's just using you for sex? I thought that's what you were doing to her."

I reminded Luke for the dozenth time that if sex were all I was after I wouldn't have to travel to Chicago to get it. No, it couldn't be just the sex because the sex itself wasn't all that spectacular. Don't get me wrong, it was perfectly adequate, but Rachel was still something of a novice and, while she was certainly willing to learn, I couldn't help wishing her last boyfriend had been a bit more thorough.

"Then what _are_ you after?" he asked in a great expulsion of air.

I hadn't figured that out yet, but I had all the time in the world to try, didn't I?

* * *

><p>I know, I know, I know. It's been a long time. But I have a good excuse. Actually, several. 1. Writer's block. 2. No motivation. 3. I've been working mad hours. 4. I developed a crush. Actually, that should be Reason #1 because it's the cause of my writer's block and no motivation. Because I just don't know what to do with these feelings. 3 Anyway, I think now I'm mostly cured. Hence, the new chapter.

I will try my hardest to get 15 up ASAP!


	17. Chapter 15

**Chapter 15**

It's a bit odd to think back to how it all started: I crashed my car into a tree because I wanted to feel something. Now, as if by some cruel design of the Universe, I was forced to feel everything at once. I didn't know what to do with all these feelings. Feelings for Rachel. Feelings for Luke—which I had been blissfully unaware of until Sophia kindly pointed them out. There were too many. I felt them too intensely, was pulled in so many directions that more often than not I was left exhausted with an overwhelming sense of anxiety.

Anxiety was the cornerstone of my emotional framework. Closely followed by panic and fear.

Because it shouldn't have been possible to maintain a romantic relationship with a woman on another continent while attending to a friend who was at once both a manic depressive and serial datist. It became fairly obvious fairly quickly: Luke never kept the girls he brought home for long. Either there was something wrong with them (too shallow, too deep; too tall, too short; too interested in him, too interested in me) or Luke was simply unworthy of their affection. If it was the former he moved on soon enough. If it was the latter he could sulk for weeks, losing himself in the library or a bottle of gin, going on about how a terrible monster like him should never be allowed to get near pretty girls.

By the time I had returned from Rachel's the second time, much refreshed from our weekend in the sheets, Luke had dumped Holly and was moping about precisely that.

"I shouldn't be allowed out" was a popular catchphrase of his. He said it when we sat down to breakfast. When we went out for the shopping. When he left for work. When—well, you get the idea. Today he said it as he collapsed onto the three-quarters of the sofa I was not occupying and sighed noisily, in a perfect impression of me, as his head hit the cushion by my knee.

"I shouldn't be allowed out."

I was only half-attending, slightly more interested in the text I had just received from Rachel than Luke's perceived woes. "Then don't go out."

Clearly that wasn't what he wanted to hear because he kept on about it. And I don't know why—probably because I wasn't attending—but my hand found its way into his hair. I glanced down and there it was, quite inexplicably. I stared at the scene for some time, wondering why Luke didn't notice—or worse, that he did and didn't mind. It was soft, his hair, and thicker than it looked.

"Do you want a drink or something?" I asked rather hastily, removing myself from the couch before my hand could do anything stupid.

He craned his head to look upside down at me. "Yes," he said with passion.

I don't know how, but I knew then that he knew all along what I hadn't known up until last month. I don't know how he knew—In fact, when I stopped to think about it, there were a lot of things I didn't know: why he was waiting for me in Paris; how he knew to go to that particular pub; why he agreed to move in with me so readily—but I suppose if Sophia could spot it half a continent away Luke could spot it from across the room. This had been some sort of test and I had failed. He now knew my weakness and there was no telling what length he would go to to exploit me.

That was October. In November, I received an invitation to join Rachel and her family for Thanksgiving. It seemed a bit mature, meeting her family before we had come to any sort of relationship agreement, but I'd have given anything to get out of Brookshire.

Rachel was waiting for me on the drive when the taxi rolled to a stop along a quiet little street of a Boston suburb.

"They'll love you," she assured me as the taxi rolled away. "I've never brought a date to a family thing before so I'm sure they'll eat you alive. But they'll love you, I swear."

I looked up at the two-story colonial and couldn't help be filled with a sense of terror, forgetting for a moment that I was a powerful and feared member of the Undead. Rachel had a way of making me forget that. I looked back at her. "Never become a motivational speaker."

She laughed. "Noted."

Rachel's family was what I had always imagined the typical American family is supposed to be. Her mother's mother was the sort of grandmother that belonged in a Hallmark card. She was kind and soft, the kind of grandmother who hangs your elementary school drawings on her fridge. Her husband, a beanpole of a man, was the complete opposite of his wife: abrasive and crash and rather attached to his cans of Budweiser. He was, Rachel told me, essentially harmless. Just don't bait him with politics. Their four children, Rachel's aunts and uncle, were equally interesting. The eldest son, Martin, was the widowed father to the most adorable and lisping boy of nine. His wife had succumbed to Parkinson's the year before. He was a bit odd, engaging in social interaction only when he had to, and drank like his father. Rachel's mother, Margaret, the second child, was her mother's daughter if ever there was such a thing. And Rachel, I saw, was hers. It was like looking into Rachel's future. In twenty years, Rachel would be her. They had the same round cheeks, same icy blue eyes, same slender build. And she, like Rachel, had some kind of dormant power. Something about their piercing eyes and their sweet smiles made you wary of crossing them.

Rachel's father, James, was as I had imagined. A portly man with silvering hair and certainly as much fire in him as his wife. I don't think they knew what to make of me. James was perfectly cordial, resigned, I think, to the idea of his little girl growing up without him. Margaret was somewhat suspicious that I, with my dashing good looks and alluring accent, had corrupted her innocent flower. I couldn't help thinking how right she was. Rachel's brother, Nathan, was a little harder to read. Firstly, he was the spitting image of no one. Except maybe the grandfather if it hadn't been for the shock of ginger hair. Secondly, he was tall and thin and utterly uninterested in me.

Rachel's aunt Mary was shorter, blonder, and plumper than her older sister. She was divorced with three daughters—twenty-two, eighteen, and fourteen—who, all except the youngest, had a marvelous time teasing Rachel and flirting with me. Rachel pretended to be offended, but I could tell she rather enjoyed the attention. The youngest daughter, Martha, also had three children from a previous marriage. Two girls and a boy. Nineteen, eight, and fifteen, respectively. She had recently remarried, although her current husband and his children were absent. She, I could tell, was the black sheep of the family, the one no one quite understood. It was her sense of humor, I think. It was just a touch out of tune with everyone else's.

And somewhere between the cranberry sauce and pumpkin pie, I realized I enjoyed it. Pretending to be human.

And when we had been fed to within an inch of our lives and the conversation was winding down to that after-dinner stupor Rachel and I took our leave. Objections were raised, but she sited some presentation she had to prepare. This was either the first I was hearing of it or, more likely, a lie. More specifically, a lie to get me alone to herself. I made objection.

"Well, what did you think?" she asked when we were safely speeding down the motorway in her ridiculously sensible car. "Kai?"

"Hm?"

She tore her eyes from the road to glance sympathetically at me. "That bad, huh?"

I wondered vaguely why we weren't on a plane before I said "No. I'm just. . ." and had to search for the right word. What was I? "Happy?" Is this what it felt like? It'd been ages since I'd come close to it.

"Happy?" she mimicked. "You don't sound convinced."

I took her hand in mine. "It's been a long time since I've had a family meal like that. I forgot how nice it can be."

That seemed to be the thing to say.

She squeezed my fingers and smiled. "What are you doing for Christmas?"

I had every intention of joining Rachel for the Christmas holiday, but it became apparent immediately upon my return to Brookshire that Luke had no intention of allowing this. Since Holly's departure, he'd seen Olivia, Bridget, and Susan. (I don't know where he kept finding these girls or how he convinced them to go out with him. Unless he had some secret cache of charm I knew nothing about. Seemed as likely as anything else. And I was never entirely sure who ended it with whom. I always assumed it was Luke, but maybe he wasn't all that charming after all.) Vicky (Victoria) was the latest casualty in Luke's never-ending war against happiness—and I knew the instant I stepped through the door it was one of those "I'm a terrible monster" break-ups. I could smell it on him. Like the gin.

_Must remember to tell Parker to stop buying gin._

So, fearing Luke would burn the house down in a fit of lonely despair, I canceled my plans in Chicago. Rachel as good as told me I better come up with some pretty spectacular gift for putting her through all this last minute. She needn't have; I already had a plan in motion.

It was to be twelve presents. One for each of the twelve days of Christmas, just like in the song. (Rachel struck me as the kind of girl that would find this both cheesy and insanely funny.) Each was to be delivered individually on the days leading up to Christmas. And each was to be increasingly inappropriate. The first few were innocuous enough: a case—and I do mean a case—of batteries; a camcorder; candles; lavender scented bubble bath. Each complete with a witty little note and a Polaroid snapshot of me in her favorite suit of mine (in one less article of clothing than the last).

She would text me as soon as she opened them:

_How did you know I collected D-cells? Thank you! I think I finally broke a million._

_A video camera? What, am I supposed to make home movies of me studying? haha_

_I can only assume the candles are for when the batteries run out following the apocalypse. Is the camera for documenting our survival?_

_Smart thinking. Bubble bath will be a luxury item after nuclear fall out. We can barter it for bacon or something. P.S. For the love of GOD take off your shirt already! _(At this point I had lost my pocket square, tie, and jacket.)

Next, a bottle of wine. Something red and sweet I though she would enjoy without me: _Finally trying to get me drunk, I see. It works better if you're here to make a move. :P_

A set of silk purple sheets: _Oh good, we were wearing out my old ones. (Really! The shoes? I'm dying over here!)_

Some sheer, frilly, lacy thing to match her eyes: _KAI! A little warning would have been nice! My roommate was right here when I opened it!_ She couldn't have been that mad; I got a picture of her wearing it that same evening.

A goodie basket of things that had struck my fancy in Coco de Mer (massage oil, body paint, things like that): _These would be great if I had someone to use them on! Jerk. _

A collection of literature—including but not limited to _Tickle His Pickle—_I thought Rachel would get a kick out of. And I was right. All I got was: _Hahahahahhaahahahaahahahahah_

One of those bedroom coupon books and a picture of me in only my underwear: _By my calculations I have 2 presents left. I don't know what to expect! Anticipation!_

The next logical thing to do was send her a series of nudes. Not just ordinary nudes, but nudes of me doing increasingly absurd things: taking a bath with a rubber duck; hanging Christmas stockings; reading a book; baking gingerbread cookies; changing a light bulb; eating gingerbread cookies. _Kaaaai! That's not faaaaaair!_

All in preparation for the grand finale. I had nearly decided on something else when Luke wondered aloud why I was going to all the trouble when I wouldn't be around to enjoy the fruits of my labor. "How do you know she won't shag someone else?" were his exact words. Not that I didn't trust Rachel, but I didn't want her to suffer unjustly. So I got her a vibrator. It went with my blessing and a note that said: _Don't get too lonely without me_.

_I. __Hate. You. So much. And now I wish I had sent you something else . . ._

I furrowed my Rachel would send me a present hadn't crossed my mind.

"Parker?"

The old man appeared out of nowhere. "Sir."

"Has a package arrived for me lately?"

"Yes, sir."

"When?"

"Three days ago, sir."

"And you didn't think to give it to me."

"It said 'Do not open until Christmas.' I knew my lord would be unable to resist the temptation. I thought it best to conceal it from you, sir."

"How . . . thoughtful." I checked my watch. "But, Parker, it is Christmas. It has been Christmas for nearly an hour. Where is my present?"

"It would be rude, I think, to open gifts without all members of the household present. Although, I imagine under the tree would be a good place to start."

This was easier said than done. Parker had, in accordance with tradition, outfitted a dozen pine trees in festive red and green ribbon and placed one in every room in the house. And conducting a house-wide search at this hour seemed a little desperate. Ah, to hell with it. I wanted my present. Of course it was very last room I checked: the library. It turned out that I wasn't alone.

Luke was sitting with his back to me, between the crackling fire and the Western Hemlock, stroking something in his lap. He turned his head when I opened the door.

"I couldn't sleep," he explained. "I didn't realize we were exchanging gifts. Thank you."

It took me a moment to register what he was talking about, but then the thing in his lap took shape and I recognized it as the blue puppy I had fallen in love with at the Great Dane breeder. I knew the instant I saw her that Luke should have her.

"What's her name?"

"The breeder called her Gertrude, but I think she looks more like a—"

"Imogen," we said at the same time.

The puppy yipped delightedly as we both diverted our gaze from one another.

"There's something here for you as well." He held up a brightly wrapped box with one hand, still clutching the dog with the other.

I took it from him, sat down beside him, and opened it.

I stared into the box for a long time, feeling strange. It was as if, until this moment, I hadn't realized I'd been missing these in my life.

"Purple shoes?" Your girlfriend sent you purple shoes?" Luke said doubtfully.

They were lavender Chucks, actually, with a note that simply said _I saw these and thought of you. _ I knew I would never take them off my feet. There were other presents, too. Ugly Christmas jumpers from Parker. Scarves and earmuffs. Then Luke got into the liquor cabinet and we drank until we weren't so sad, put on our jumpers, and told stories. Just as the sun was rising Luke produced a small package in simple brown paper from the far recesses of the tree.

I looked confused when he gave it to me.

He only shrugged and said "It's Christmas."

Inside the wrapping was book.

I looked up at him. "It's in Russian."

"I remember you saying your mother was Russian. I'm not actually sure what it is; I found it buried in a shop in London when we went. Have you read it?"

"It's Dostoevsky's _The Idiot. _And yes, many times. In English. Thank you. It's . . . strangely perfect."

The whole thing was strangely perfect. Everything (even when Imogen pissed on the Persian rug) except the unrelenting urge I had to reach across the hearth and kiss him. And then, at one point when I was very drunk, I think I called him Rachel.

I decided, whilst hungover that afternoon, that something was wrong with me. There had been a lot wrong with me before Luke had entered the picture, to be sure, but he had certainly exacerbated things.

So it was with great relief that Parker informed me on 3 January 2005 that the annual R.I. Meeting of the Partners was being held in sunny San Francisco this year. Apparently we bought out some record label or something.

"Did we really?" I said incredulously. I hadn't looked at the spreadsheets in so long I didn't even know how are stocks were doing. Probably well; I hired the best people. "Well, I suppose I ought to make an appearance."

"Your great-grandfather would be so proud," Parker said in that snide way of his.

I laughed because my great grandfather had died before I was born and, although he never met me, I was fairly certain he would have disowned me as his son had. And I laughed because no one knew that my great-grandfather—the one who had allegedly founded Ross Industries—and I were one and the same man. Because it was funny no one yet had gotten wise to my act. Because no one could know what I really was, being an immortal vampire and all.

Jesus. Maybe I was still drunk.

So I went to San Francisco, muddled through the balmy sunshine, endured wretched old men talk at me as if I didn't know my way around a boardroom, drank my fill of the hotel staff, and didn't arrive in Chicago until the thirteenth of February. I was sorry the instant I landed. It was blowing snow all over the place and my overfed form didn't take well to such cold. The only thing that offered any warmth was the thought of returning to Rachel. I'd been neglecting her of late, that I knew. I knew, too, that the long absences were getting to her. If they were getting to me—and they were—then they had to be getting to her, good as she was at pretending otherwise. I had every intention of making it up to her. I bought tickets to a show that had just arrived in town. I made reservations at a place she'd been dying to try. Then, very early on a frosty Tuesday morning, I bought flowers and went round to let myself into her flat—and was altogether surprised to find she was already up.

"Really, Kai! You could think to call first!" I'd caught her with her hair still dripping wet from her shower. "You don't call for two weeks and then you show up unannounced at eight in the morning! I'm late for class as it is!"

"I only wanted to surprise you. I know how much you hate that." I let the flowers I was holding droop onto the table. "I think I rather got my days mixed up. I know you have Tuesdays free, but that was yesterday, wasn't it?"

She gave me a withering look and disappeared into her bedroom.

"Are you very angry with me?" I called.

"Annoyed, mostly," came the reply.

"I was going to make pancakes. Bacon. Fresh squeezed orange juice." I was muttering to myself. "I was going to feed you breakfast in bed. But it seems I can't even do that right. I should go."

"Don't _go_," she sighed, breezing out of her room in jeans and an oversized sweater. "I've got class until two. You've got till then to make it up to me."

I watched like a scolded child as she wrapped herself up in her coat and her scarf, pausing only to kiss my cheek before hurrying off.

"I'm sorry I snapped at you this morning," she said upon her return. "It's just been—whatever. I'm happy you're here. Really. I've missed you."

"Sorry I didn't call."

She shook her head and shed her school things. "That's not why I was upset. Well, that was a small part of it, but really I . . . I'm in need of a hug." I hugged her. A whole minute passed before she released me with a sigh. "It's just that I don't really know what we're doing."

"I thought I would start by feeding you pancakes."

"No, Kai, I mean what is _this?_ I just meant—I mean, we've been out a dozen times or so. You've flown across the ocean three times to see me. With no promise of sex, I might add. So, I don't know. Are you just trying to burn through your frequent flyer miles? Because I can think of at least a hundred places with better weather than Chicago. Or—"

I was smiling. "Haven't I asked you to be my girlfriend yet?"

She looked up at me plaintively. "No."

"That's odd," I said and walked away.

She followed me into the living room, laughing. "Kai, wait. Get back here."

I hadn't asked her because I knew she would say yes. I knew what kind of commitment it entailed, being attached. And what kind of honesty. I sat down on the sofa. "Rachel, I . . . I know we had this unspoken agreement to keep things sort of unofficial and all. But you're right. I do want something more out of this. I've just been waiting for the right time to tell you . . ." I trailed off.

She crept closer, curious and a little apprehensive. "Tell me what? Kai, tell me what?"

"The truth. About what I do. What I am, really."

She sat down slowly, arched a wary brow. "You're making me nervous. What did you do? Kill someone?"

I laughed. Perhaps a little longer than I should have. "The thing is, Rachel, I—" My phone beeped at me. I slipped it out of my pocket, saw it was Luke, and ignored it. "The thing is—" My pocket beeped again. Voicemail. And he called right back.

"Oh answer it, Kai!" Rachel pleaded.

I gave her an apologetic look, put the thing to my ear. "Luke?"

"This is Parker, sir. Mr. Brown is—"

I sat bolt upright. "Parker! What are you doing on Luke's phone? What's happened?"

"There seems to have been an accident."

"What have you done to him?"

"Not him, sir. His parents. They were in a auto accident over the weekend. They didn't make it."

* * *

><p>An extra long one to make up for my long absence. I was backpacking in the great northern Michigan woods. It's very troubling to be back in civilization. Hopefully 16 won't be too long behind! It's half written already.<p> 


	18. Chapter 16

**Chapter 17  
><strong>

I knew it had been too good to last. The groove we had gotten into after Christmas, the easy camaraderie we had had in his college days, was just the lull before the storm.

We'd talked about it before. Contacting his family. He mother and father, his little brother Sam—not so little anymore. Did they think he was dead? Had they given up hope? What would they do if they learned he was alive?

"More importantly, what would Crevan and his Theins do? Not only to you, but to them?"

Each time we reached this thorn sooner than the last. Each time he fought a little less. By Christmas seeing them had never been an option. Luke settled to watch from a distance, became something of their guardian in his mind. I knew it was a bad idea. Thomas had done it, and the longing to be near his wife and child drove him half-mad. He left me, went to them, and, if the rumors are true, killed them. It's a Catch 22: If you don't kill them, something else will.

In the case of Luke's parents, something else did.

It had been snowing hard that day. His parents were driving home from an anniversary weekend in Dublin when, quite unexpectedly, their vehicle was struck by a FedEx freight. Nothing recognizably human could be found in the wreckage.

Luke read about it in the _Cumberland News_ two days later. An obituary ran the day after. He had me read it to him. In a moment I knew why:

_Howard and Helen Brown are survived by their son, Samuel._

That must have hurt most of all, knowing Sam was orphaned and being unable to stand up and say_ I'm here! You're not alone!_

I read through the thing quickly, skipping parts I thought might give him pain, and tucked it away as soon as it was over. "It says there's a service scheduled for Friday. Do you want to go?"

His red-rimmed eyes flickered hazily; he hadn't heard a word—or perhaps he'd heard too much.

I repeated the question when he didn't respond.

He looked miserably at me. "Should I?"

"Lucas, you must."

"But you said—"

"Forget all that. It's all quite different now. No, you must go." I sat down beside him. "I'll come with you if you like."

He agreed and on Friday morning I drove us up just in time for the burial, parked in a secluded area of the cemetery. He wouldn't leave the car. I think it finally hit him all at once.

His family was gone.

He cried into my jacket for an hour. And then, quite abruptly, he snapped out of it, pulled himself together and demanded to be driven home.

"Don't you want to say goodbye?"

"I want to go back. Take me back."

I couldn't bear to do that. I took the keys out of the ignition, went round to Luke's door, pried it open. "Get out of the car."

"I don't want to."

"You need to."

"Kai, please, let's just go."

I was insistent.

He conceded at long last and the two of us shambled through knee-high snow drifts. We crested the hill and there, concealed by the bowing evergreens, we watched the last few mourners, bundled against the cold, push through the snow to their cars until only two remained over the freshly turned earth: an old woman and—

"Sam," Luke gasped before a fresh wave of sobs sent him sagging into the nearest tree trunk.

They too retired their watch after some time, and we were left very much alone. There was much I wanted to say to him, to comfort him, as we picked our way to the grave site—_I know what you must be feeling; I lost my mother when I was about your age—_but the words felt untrue, useless, a lie. How could I possible know how he felt? My mother had passed peacefully after months of agonizing illness. Luke's parents had been ripped from this world without any warning at all. I had had a chance to say goodbye to my mother. Luke hadn't seen his family for years. Now two-thirds of them were underground.

_Howard C. Brown 1954-2006_

_Helen A. Brown 1959-2006_

_Lucas X. Brown 1980-2001_

We stood in the snow, silent and staring. He watching the headstones, I watching him. I wish he would tell me what he was thinking. I could have helped dispel his fears. I had this horrible suspicion that he somehow blamed himself for their death. I longed to tell him he was mistaken. That, had he been nearer them, it wouldn't have changed their fate.

"Luke. Lucas." I reached for his hand. He slipped out of reach, pretending not to hear. "Lucas, I know . . . Luke, I'm sorry. Truly." Even as I said them the words sounded insincere and rehearsed. What could I say to console him?

I don't know how long we stood there in the cold and the snow. Finally and without warning, Luke seemed to have had his fill, wiped his eyes—already dry—and turned toward the car.

It was all very gradual, his descent into alcoholism. A bit like watching a glacier inch toward your house day after day until you wake up one morning to find it pressing against your kitchen window and you can't help but wonder "When the hell did that get there?" It was much the same with Luke.

He was devastated by his parents' death, as was only natural. I didn't begrudge him his grief; I only wished he wouldn't take out on my liquor cabinet. He lost weight, lost sleep, his laugh, any sense of hygiene. I think he even started pulling out his hair—at least his wolf was gnawing off his fur. That was the other thing: his wolf changed, too. It didn't howl or claw at the door like it typically did. It ate its meat offering in a famished way, whined pitifully for an hour, then settled down to sleep. I think it was the only peace Luke had all month.

His parents had perished in February and by March, rather than taking solace and comfort in the arms of his friends (for he had won over our small community by this point), he had pushed them all away. Joanne, his latest fling. Parker. Even me. Having no external outlet for his grief, he turned his pain inward and the self-deprecation began. By April he was coming home drunk at least twice a week. He lost his job in May, having shown up one too few times and one too many times drunk. All the while his demeanor toward me—well, everyone, but especially me—was becoming darker by the day. He would go weeks without speaking and when he did speak anything he said was sardonic and foul.

Imogen (who had doubled in size since Christmas) was all but forgotten, poor girl. Worse still, for Luke would sometimes forget himself and fall to scratching her ears, only to come to a moment later and push her away more vehemently than before. It was then that she would turn to me and we, unable to console our friend, consoled one another instead. She still slept outside his door every night. To prevent him leaving, I think. Some nights I sat up with her. I didn't know what else to do. He wouldn't talk to me, wouldn't talk to anyone. I thought briefly, after picking him up at the local pub for the thousandth time, of contacting his brother. I thought maybe that was what was really bother him, knowing Sam was alone in the world.

In the end I did nothing.

In the end I watched it happen.

* * *

><p>Poor kid. Can't catch a break, can he?<p> 


	19. Chapter 17

**Chapter 17**

I think I hoped it was only temporary; Luke would grieve for his parents and be done with it. But I forgot to account for his preexisting tendency to feel sorry for himself and the compounding effect it had on his countenance. Before I realized he'd sunk too low to pull himself out. And by then he was unreachable, unwilling or unable to accept my help.

At long last, some time in June, I couldn't stand to watch anymore. I had to get him out of the house. So I put him on a plane and to Isla de la Palma. I had a cottage there and thought some sun and sand would do him some good. If only for the short-term.

My concern for him, the soul-ache I had had for months now, unable to reach him yet unable to walk away, was causing me physical pain. Not only that, but a longing, seeded deep in my proverbial heart, to comfort him. It was ruining my life, this longing; no sooner would he look at me, his eyes filled with a pain and a sorrow I couldn't know, that I wanted to take him in my arms and—and what? Cry? Hold him? Make love to him? I could so easily do it; bend his will to succumb to my own, have my fill of him and cast him off like a used thing. But such an act would be . . . perverse, if I was honest with myself. Luke wasn't my plaything, not a meal hunted in a dingy alley. He was a werewolf. And a volatile one at that. Besides that I still couldn't decide if I wanted him like that or not. I loved him, I thought. Surely I had to to put myself through this torment. At the very least I worshiped him. But I had not found the nerve to confess this to him for fear he would not return the sentiment—or worse, that he would.

I sometimes got the impression that he felt the same way. Or at least knew too much. There were times, moments, instances, when he would seize with anxiety, his mouth twist into a grimace, his eyes wide with panic. Perhaps he knew but didn't know why. But what did he know? No more than I and I didn't know much.

He was thinking too much, was the problem. Reading into a subtext that wasn't there. Perhaps he feared I'd awakened something in him, something he dare not give thought to. It was possible. Cecil had claimed I was his undoing, why couldn't I be Luke's as well?

Ah, but the way he watched the pretty local girls said otherwise, glancing after them as they passed with a nervous kind of longing. But he would not accept their advances and did not make his own. When I asked why he said "What I am . . . it wouldn't be right."

The age old "What claim do monsters have to happiness?" As much as anyone else, I should think. But Luke was set on torturing himself and suffered his agony in silence, as did I.

I watched him watching them. "Doesn't mean you can't have a little fun every now and then."

His smile didn't reach his eyes when he turned and asked "How's Rachel?"

"She's fun. I like her. Don't change the subject."

"_Like?_ You've been together how long and you no more than _like_ her?"

"I no more than like you," I retorted, not sure if this was true.

He looked away. "It's not quite the same thing, is it."

I shrugged and refused to answer, my mood gone sour. Who was he to try to give advice where it wasn't wanted? Rachel and I were just fine, thank you.

I knew we couldn't stay forever. I had Rachel to think of, for one thing, a business for another, and then there were the locals. They were getting suspicious of this mysterious "illness" that had inexplicably befallen their daughters. (I still had to feed, didn't I?) I knew, too, that this was not the solution to his problem but a distraction from it. And distractions, as we all know, cannot last forever.

But god did he look good. His hard-packed body bronzed from weeks under the tropical sun; the first real smile I'd seen in months parting his pink lips; his hair sun-bleached to the silvery blond of his childhood.

I was besotted.

Shit.

I sat beneath the shade of a palm tree one afternoon, watching him down by the water. He turned, looked round at me as if he knew my thoughts, and set off toward me.

"You're not swimming," he observed when he had come a bit closer.

"It's too bright today." I touched the brim of my sunglasses, tugged my straw hat around my ears.

Luke smiled vaguely, glanced away. "How long are we staying?"

"As long as you'd like."

He glanced back at me. "I'd like to go home."

But we didn't go home. We stayed another three weeks and one evening, having nothing better to do, we gatecrashed a party at one of the resorts. I didn't pay attention to the signs; I was only interested in the large crowd and the chance to score an easy meal. Luke wasted no time in finding the bar. A good thing he did: a pretty little American caught his eye and, after receiving some not-so-subtle encouragement from her friends, made her move.

I was too far away to hear was was said—and anyway, a gorgeous Spaniard had just crossed my path. I watched him too long; when I looked back at the bar Luke had gone.

He did not return until late the next morning.

"And where, may I ask, have you been hiding?" I knew the answer already, knew he had been with her, could tell by the smug little smirk on his smug little face. All the same, I couldn't help the pang of jealousy when he replied "Taking a leaf out of your book."

"Seeing her again?"

It went on for a week. I sulked in silence, seeing as this tryst of his was doing him some good. He was drinking less. I had no reason to protest. And then the time came for them to part. Numbers were exchanged and promises made but

"You won't call her, will you?"

His smile was elusive and vague.

He took up with a pair of German girls that weekend; an Argentinian; a couple of local girls. He was making a pass at our waitress when I understand what he was really doing: he was baiting me, a sort of childish "Look, look what I'm doing, you can't stop me." The following week I realized I'd only got it half right. It was out of spite, yes, but more importantly it was a stand-in for the alcohol. The less he drank the more insatiable he became. Which could have been healthy to a point, but Luke always went beyond that point. And he did still get drunk sometimes, which made it worse.

One night he brought his catch home. They were both a little tipsy, a little more so. I could hear them from upstairs; talking and giggling gave way to silence (I assumed they were snogging) gave way to a murmur that broke out into a few brief angry exchanges followed by a clattering of furniture and I sprang into action.

They were standing next to the sofa, Luke's hand closed around her wrist, an anger in his eyes I hadn't seen in a long time. The girl, fear hiding behind her scowl, looked to me as I entered the room, opened her mother to say something. Even before that I was dragging him off her.

"How _dare_ you."

"Oh come off it, Kai," he laughed, tugging free of me. "We were only having a bit of fun."

I slapped him. I didn't even mean to, it just happened. "Does she look like she's having fun?"

He stared at me, bewildered. "You hit me!"

"Apologize."

He looked round at the girl, wide-eyed and confused. "I'm sorry."

"Good. Now sit."

He sat.

I took the girl out of the room, made her tea, called her a cab, apologizing at least every other sentence. She was shaken as I would've been were I being terrorized by some great blubbering brute, but assured me she'd dealt with worse and knew a thing or two about "hitting them where it counts." I had a lovely mentally image of her breaking Luke's nose and apologized for having prevented it. She laughed and we parted on better terms than I anticipated.

I discovered Luke exactly where I'd left him. I stood a little ways apart, watching the back of his head and filling with so much anger I wanted to— "You know better than that." My voice was low, dark. It scared even me.

He turned his eyes toward me and I saw he was crying.

"_Oh, Lucas_." I nearly choked on the words, so swift was the grief that flooded my heart. I took him into my arms, held him as tight as I dared.

He tensed at my touch, tried to stop his tears and couldn't. "I don't . . . know . . . what I would've done if . . . if you hadn't stopped me." His words were nearly unintelligible, spilled into the fabric of my shirt.

"You would have let her go," I murmured comfortingly. I liked to think he would have come to his sense on his own, that when the girl had sternly and emphatically repeated _No_, Luke would have left her alone. It's also entirely possible he could have ignored and raped her. But Luke should have known better than that. Luke _does_ know better than that. And I couldn't let drunk Luke doing things that would emotionally scar sober Luke—not to mention that poor girl. "You were letting her go already."

He laughed, one feeble syllable; the kind of laugh that said he knew I was lying and he was grateful for it. He took a steadying breath, pulled back. And looked at me. No, it was more like he was letting me see him for the first time in weeks. He wasn't all right. Had never been, even for the faintest moment, all right, and why hadn't I seen it? Why had I let him trick me? I could see the pain in his eyes, see he was drowning in it. It was more than I was prepared for. Even before I knew what was happening I had leaned over and kissed him.

Just once. Just one soft, solitary kiss filled with so much pity it made me sick.

His hand was on the side of my face, his thumb pressed against my ear. His eyes were . . . searching, hard, as if he were trying to make up his mind about something. I was horribly afraid that he would try to kiss me back—afraid I might not refuse him.

He let me go in the next moment.

But I held firmly to him. "Talk to me," I pleaded. _Talk to me because I'm the only one you have left._

"I can't." It was barely even a whisper.

"You can, Lucas, you can. I'm right here. I'm not going anywhere," is what I wanted to say. But the words never made it off my lips.

"I can't," he said again. "I can't stay here."

I left off asking why, perhaps because I knew the answer already. "Where do you want to be?"

"I don't know. Somewhere. Anywhere else."

So we did, walking without thought until we came to the sea. It was quiet there; the water was calm, the stars were out. There's nothing quite like the sound of the ocean, the steady beat of surf on sand, to remind you just how small—or large—your troubles truly are. We sat for a long time, watching it. Luke never said a word. I couldn't muster the courage to say any myself.


	20. Chapter 18

Hello again! Have another chapter. I don't really like the direction it's taken but oh well.

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><p><strong>Chapter 18<strong>

"There's just one thing I want you to do for me." It was the next morning, the morning of our departure, and I had one final request.

Luke was red-eyed and sleep-deprived, but on the whole much improved from last night. It was, as always, a thing of the past, never to be spoken of again. "What's that?"

"Meet Rachel. Come see her with me. I was thinking about what you said," I added before he could object, "about how to deny oneself is to deny oneself love."

A strange noise escaped his throat as he poured himself a cup of coffee. "Did I say that?"

"You're right."

"Am I?"

"That's why I want to tell Rachel the truth. About me, that is."

He was looking perplexed. "That's . . . quite the commitment for you."

"Shut up. I need you there with me."

"To do what? Hold her down while you drain her dry? Thanks, but—"

"For moral support."

He laughed. "I'm not—" I fixed him with my most pleading look. "But it's—" I stared a little harder. "—it's the full moon this week," he finished lamely.

"I know a place."

He went because he had no choice (I controlled the purse strings, after all); I took him because I feared what he would do when left alone. We spend the flight sitting in a charged (on my end) silence. I was itching for any form of acknowledgment; a word, a glance, a gesture. Luke was having none of it. He stuck his nose in _Sky Mall_ and didn't pull it out until we landed. The only words we exchanged were descending.

"Are you going to be sick?" He was looking very peculiarly at me.

"What? No. Why?"

"Your breathing's gone a bit funny."

"Has it?" I stared fixedly out my window, watching the city grow around us. "I was thinking."

"About Rachel? How do you think she'll take it?"

Surprisingly well, it turned out. As well as anyone feasibly can when they find out the bloke they've been shagging for the last year and a half has been fighting the urge to kill them.

It happened like this:

We were hardly off the plane when I reached into my pocket and dialed her. "You'll never guess where I am."

"Mmm, some warm sandy beach with that manic depressive of yours? Don't remind me. How's he doing?"

"I'm here."

There was a pause. "Here? Here as in Chicago, here?"

"Can I come over?"

"What, right now?"

I didn't tell her I had Luke with me. If she was surprised or in any way putt off by my "plus one" she didn't say so; she hit me, a mock-angry jab to the ribs. "Ass. Why didn't you tell me he was coming? I would have cleaned up my apartment. Or at least showered. Jeez." But her smiled brightened as she turned to him and said "Hello, Luke. I suppose it was inevitable that we meet."

She was, bless her, most welcoming and friendly toward him and appeared to take a genuine interest in what he had to say—which was very little. And Luke, though he hated me for forcing him along, was nevertheless polite and gracious to our hostess. He declined her invitation to join us that evening and elected to stay behind in her apartment. (When she learned we had not yet made hotel arrangements she insisted on having us over, said to worry about it in the morning. Her roommate was, fortunately, out.)

"You kids have fun now," Luke said in a tone that suggested it was the last thing he wanted us to do.

I blew him a kiss as we were walking out the door and laughed when he flicked me off in turn.

We went to dinner and then took a walk in the park. I told her everything. Well, nearly. I included the part with Luke harassing the girl but left out the part where I kissed him. It had been an impulse, a moment of weakness, nothing that needed repeating. I got very near to telling her the thing I meant to . . . but how do you tell someone something like that? Perhaps I had waited too long. We'd been together almost a two years, and yet . . . did she love me? I was almost positive I loved her. And then somehow we got on another subject and before I could stop it she reached up and kissed me.

We were making out by the time we got up to her floor. It was like being in high school—or what I imagine high school to be from all the 80s films I've seen, having never been myself. I'm sure it would have lead to some very X-rated stuff if we had not opened the door to see Luke strolling out of the kitchen, beer in hand.

"Don't stop on my account," he said by way of greeting.

I disentangled myself from her, pulled a face. "Remind me why I brought you with me."

He returned the gesture. "It's so much easier to ignore me when I'm in the same country."

He was right. I had forgotten about him. From behind us Rachel coughed.

I looked at her apologetically and did something I don't normally do. I apologized. "I'm sorry. I really thought he'd be more fun."

She shook her head as shed her things. Keys. Purse. Shoes. "Speaking of fun, I don't know what you might have in mind for tomorrow, but I happen to be in possession of four passes to the Lincoln Park Zoo. If you're interested."

"Well?"

"Well what?" he asked.

"What do you think?" I gestured toward Rachel, strolling along ahead of us with her friend Ashley, no doubt whispering about me as they stopped to watch the sea otters play.

"Dunno. She's all right, I suppose. A bit strange." Then he asked, because he knew he should: "What do _you_ think?"

We paused by the polar bear exhibit, on the pretense of reading bulletin. I considered a moment. "I think it's a shame we'll be ruining her evening."

"You're telling her today then?"

"I don't think I can do it alone." I glanced meaningfully at him, dazzled, for a moment, by the brilliant sun setting behind him and the way it seemed to set his eyes on fire.

"Don't look at _me._ I'm not going to do it. Honestly, I don't know why you haven't told her already."

"Told me what?"

Rachel's bright, chirpy interjection made us both start. Her eyes flicked between us in mock-suspicion.

"How pretty you look today," I replied too quickly.

She snorted. "I'm sure. But thank you anyway. 'Bout ready to head out? Ashley has another date."

We were back at her flat within the hour. She set about making dinner almost at once. "Hungry at all?" she called from the kitchen while Luke and I were still taking off our shoes. "I think I've got some chicken thawed out . . . Ah, yep. There it is."

"No," I said, going after her. "No. You've done enough already. I won't have you cooking us dinner, too."

"No?" She looked amused.

"No," I repeated. "Luke can do that. Go away."

Luke came in scowling as Rachel went out laughing. "Don't volunteer me like some—"

"Actually, Rachel," I called out nervously.

She wandered back in. "Yes?"

"I wondered if I might have a word."

She blinked. "Yes?"

"Perhaps in the other room."

Luke remained in the safety of the kitchen as I slowly told Rachel my story in the living room.

Her expression was at first amused. Then perplexed, confused, concerned, startled, shocked, wary, frightened, and finally peaked with a frantic glance toward the door, as though calculating her chances of escape.

I was afraid she would bolt.

She didn't.

Perhaps fear kept her in her seat.

When I was finished, when I had said all I could say, she was quiet for a long time. She blinked several times in rapid succession, as if waking from a restless sleep. "Well," she said at long last, "you certainly wouldn't know it to look at you."

To which Luke, appearing on the edge of the room, chuckled and replied "D'you know, I've thought the exact same thing."

I glowered. "Nice to see you two taking this seriously."

Then, to my immense surprise, she cracked a grin. "Are you one, too?" she asked Luke.

The question, for whatever reason, made him blush. "N-no. I'm . . ."

"He's a werewolf," I finished helpfully.

"Silly me. Of course he is," she laughed flippantly. And I realized—

"Rachel, we're not joking. I, I wish we were but it's all true."

Then Rachel did something I've always loved about her: she held up a hand. Which meant she was right on the verge of saying something intelligent and therefore sexy. "Let's get one thing clear: I don't deny the existence of vampires or werewolves. I mean, if God can create something as absurd as Rick Santorum, I doubt anything is impossible for Him. However, it's lot to process in one afternoon. I think I might need some time" —her voice was rising with panic; she _looked _panicked— "or air." She bolted from her chair, escaping down the hallway to her bedroom.

I got up to follow her when Luke, to my surprise, touched my arm.

I looked at him.

"Let me."

I seemed to stare at him for ages. At long last I nodded, sat back down.

I caught bits and pieces of their conversation, but on the whole I was too afraid to listen.

He knocked at the door. "Rachel? Listen, I know we only just met yesterday and you've no reason to believe me, but I know a little of what you're going through. Can I come in?"

It took some time, but the door eventually opened. "What can you know? Have you been blinding screwing him for the past year, too?"

"No, but I didn't always know he was . . . well, it was a shock to me, too. I could tell you the story if you like. It might help."

The door closed again.

I didn't see how the story of a five-year-old being rescued by a dark stranger was going to help, but Luke told it anyway.

"And then, at University, I ran into him again. I always had this nagging feeling like I knew him from somewhere but could never quite place him. I was curious about hi, as if drawn to him by something invisible, and I found myself wanting to be friends with him. Me. Who rarely wants to be friends with anyone."

Rachel laughed. "I felt the same way. In South Africa. He was, I dunno, different somehow. It's never boring, that's for sure. You know, he talks about you sometimes. I think he worries."

It was then that I stopped listening, hearing all I could bear.

I lost track of time. Ten minutes, twenty. Forty. Finally, Luke ran out of words and the two of them emerged smiling and whispering like the best of friends. They sat on the couch together, side by side, and looked at me. There was no trace of fear on her; she was resolved, her expression set, eyes piercing, determined to have it all out. Only her left hand gave her away. Resting on her lap, she touched each of her fingers in turn with the pad of her thumb, a tell that meant she wanted desperately to cling to something. I usually offered her my hand. I couldn't offer it now.

Luke, on the other hand, well, the smile fell from his lips the moment she took her eyes from him.

I shot him a "why are you doing this?" look.

He gave an infinitesimal shrug before he slipped into that vacant, gloomy stare I knew all too well.

"Well," Rachel began, "Luke managed to clear up a few of my larger concerns, but I do still have a few questions."

"Yes, anything," I breathed, hardly daring to believe this was happening, that she had decided to accept me and—more importantly, I think—to forgive me.

"Why did you wait to tell me until now? For that matter, why bother telling me at all?"

I felt my cheeks grow hot. They were just the questions I didn't want asked. Because the answers were still unknown to me (though I had nearly guessed at it). Because there was really only one answer to each of them—i just hoped Luke wouldn't be in earshot when I had to say it.

Luke caught my expression and, bless him, took the hint. But when he tried to make his excuses Rachel caught his sleeve, never taking her eyes from me. "No. Stay. Please. I want a witness." I couldn't help thinking that what she really wanted was a bodyguard.

He sank back onto the sofa.

"Rachel," I said in my most pleading tone. When that didn't work I had no option but to blunder on. "I . . . because I—I mean, I wasn't sure, but lately I've been thinking that . . . I . . . love you."

"No." She was shaking her head. "You can't do that. You can't tell me our entire relationship has been a lie and then think '_I love you' _will magically fix it all."

I looked pleadingly at Luke, thinking, I don't know why, that he would be able to do something. He wouldn't meet my gaze. I looked again at Rachel, feeling utterly lost. "I don't . . . didn't expect it to fix everything" —I'd expected it to go over better it was true, but— "but it is the truth."

I realized even as I was saying it that it was a lie—At least, it wasn't the whole truth. It was the answer to her second question (why I bother to tell her at all) and a partial answer to the first. I hadn't told her sooner because I had been—still was—busy looking after Luke. Because we'd only come to her now because going back to Brookshire seemed impossible. Because even when I was thinking of her I was thinking of him. I looked from her to him, wondering how this could be true. How could I love her and yet—. Luke looked up from his knees and the look on his face was . . . hurt. He looked hurt. I looked back at Rachel. She merely looked exasperated.

"Can't we do this privately?" I hardly recognized my own voice.

Luke left.

Rachel and I had it all out.

"I'm sorry I didn't tell you sooner," I said when I had come to the end. "I've never done this before."

"Been in love?" She slid a little closer.

I pressed her hand in mine. "I've done that, once or twice. I've never told them what I've told you though."

She smiled a little. "What makes me so special?"

"I don't know."

There was a pause, a natural yet strained silence.

"Listen, Kai, since you're being so honest, it's only fair to tell you that I don't know if I love you yet. I'm very found of you, I like you a lot, but, even though this doesn't change everything, it does change some things."

"I know."

"I still want to see you."

"Do you?" I sounded surprised.

She smiled again. "Yes. Why don't you ask me to dinner? I want to hear more about you and Luke."

I almost laughed. I couldn't think of a worse possible thing. "No, you don't. Trust me."


	21. Chapter 19

So you know that thing where I said I'd post once a week? Well, that was a lie. Lately it's been because I've been having too much fun ripping out a poor man's heart and grinding it into pudding. I exaggerate, of course. But only a little. Anyway, good news is, there are exactly ten chapters to go and most of the end I wrote before the beginning. Once it's done, I will be removing it, redoing it, and putting it up...somewhere else. Because it has gotten extremely far away from me. Alas, enjoy this latest installment of heartbreak and misery.

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><p><strong>Chapter 19<strong>

We were home in time for the full moon. It was strange returning to Brookshire; we'd been away so long the season had turned. Summer had wilted, so too had our precariously patched up friendship. Ah, but who was I kidding. We hadn't been friends since Paris. Maybe not even then.

Perhaps I should say only this: he talked to me even less, if that were possible.

Imogen, at least, was happy to see me. But then, she was happy to see Luke, too, so I didn't hold out much hope. She seemed to had doubled in size since we last saw her. From the looks of things, she'd been running Parker simply ragged. He too looked please to see us. Exhausted, but pleased. And Luke cheered up when he saw Imogen; there was something quite like affection on his face when she tackled him hello.

Parker and I observed their reunion from the far end of the room, silent and wistful—well, I was wistful. Parker coughed into his hand, a subtle suggestion that we should leave them be. I followed him out.

"All right, Parker, what is it? I left you three vials, there's no chance you're getting more out of me."

He ignored the accusation. "How is he?"

It was a simple question, really, one I'd been expecting even, but I flinched just the same.

"I told you it wouldn't fix anything"

I scowled, tried for that old biting sarcasm—"Since when do I listen to you?"—and failed miserably. I sat in a hurry, the wind seemed to go right out of my lungs and into my head, made me dizzy. "I thought he might . . ."

"Has he said anything?"

I shook my head. "You know him, Parker. Never says a word about anything to anyone. He spoke more words to Rachel in a single hour than he has to me in the last month."

"You went to see her?"

"I . . . made a mistake. Miscalculated. I thought if I told Rachel the truth about me, if I demonstrated to Luke that it could be done, that the world wouldn't collapse, he would see there was still hope for him."

Something like a sigh escaped him. "It backfired, I take it."

My eyes darted this way and that, to every corner, every crevice, just to avoid looking at Parker. Because if I looked at Parker somehow my words would become real. Somehow, it would stop being just this bad dream. "I told her I loved her. I hadn't planned it, it just . . . came out. Luke . . . I don't—He looked as if I had betrayed him."

Parker was quiet a long time. When he spoke again it was as one speaks to a friend, not as a servant to his master. "That's not so strange, I think. Though he may loathe you, you're the closest thing to family he has left. It's not difficult to believe he'd begrudge you if he thought you were abandoning him for someone else."

"That's absurd!"

"Not to him it isn't. You've just taken a very big step toward what I hope is a respectable girl, and, as far as Luke can tell, a step away from him. The boy lost his parents, Malakai!" That patriarchal tone was back. "And rather than help him confront his grief you bury it in the sand of Whore Island and hope the tide doesn't come in!"

"That's not—!"

We both stopped short at the sudden cessation of commotion from the hall. A whimper reached our ears, the sound of an animal in pain; a cry.

We were off our feet and through the door in a moment.

"K-Kai—"

Luke was crouched on the floor, his back to us, obscuring what lay in front of him. He looked over his shoulder as he said the word, fear and horror evident in his eyes. His eyes. His eyes were wrong. A shudder passed through him; I watched it travel down his neck, his shoulders, down hi arm to his hands. His hands. They didn't seem quite right either.

Everything snapped into focus in that moment.

The thing on the floor was Imogen, whining and bleeding. His finger were sporting claws instead of nails. Even as I watched he started sprouting fangs.

"Kai . . . I-I didn't mean— I've killed her."

I was beside him in an instant, cooing, coaxing, cursing myself for not keeping track of the time. "It's all right," I lied, hoisting him to his feet even as his body contorted in pain. "It wasn't all that deep." A lie. "Parker can tend to her. Have her up in no time. Parker!" The old man was already a step ahead of me, tending to the dog as I hurried the werewolf out of the house.

"I've killed her. I've killed her." Luke muttered the mantra over and over until he could no longer form words through the agony of the change. I half-dragged, half-carried the writhing creature across the ground, had nearly made it to the shed, when the snarling beast turned its impressive teeth on me. I flinched away in self-preservation, lost my grip, and the thing took off toward the brook. I recovered a moment later and gave chase; we were so close to the cellar. So close to keeping Luke safe.

"Luke! Lucas! Come here!"

A shot rang out.

I whirled toward the house. "Parker!" I shouted, changing course. "Parker!" I nearly collided with him on the verandah. He had a pistol in his hand.

"There was no use," he explained. "It had already taken hold."

I looked over his shoulder through to the hall and sure enough there was Imogen, still and unbreathing. "This will kill him."

Parker's face was hard. "We have to catch him before he kills something else."

"Without getting killed ourselves, you mean."

He burnished the pistol in his hand. "You're his natural prey. Let him chase you back to the cellar. I'll be waiting."

As much as I liked putting Parker in danger, and as much as I hated the thought of potentially hurting Luke, I could find no other alternative and time was of the essence. I ran, guided only by the moonlight and his smell as it zigzagged through the dense wood. I made all sorts of noise tearing through the undergrowth. I came upon him sooner than I anticipated; he'd caught a stag.

It was eerily hypnotic watching this impossibly large, hulking creature, its pale coat practically glowing in the dappled moonlight, its teeth teeth tearing greedily at innocent flesh the only sound.

When it caught wind of me, which didn't take long, the single most terrifying snarl I have ever heard ripped from its throat. Snarl isn't even the right word. It was a war cry. It was blood thirsty, savage. It wanted my blood.

I didn't look to see if he was chasing me, I turned and ran. I was so thoroughly scared out of my wits I ran right past the shed and had to double back. I crashed through the open door, the wolf on my heel; a shot rang out; a howl of pain; I whirled to see the wolf stagger sideways, stunned by a flesh wound. I don't know how (sheer dumb luck, no doubt) but I managed to stuff it down into the cellar.

"What happens in the morning?" I looked at Parker. He was panting hard, his face unreadable.

"Nothing good."

Dawn found us huddled together on the shed floor. It was Parker's snoring that woke me. And then the unmistakeable sound of a man weeping reached my ears. I slid out from under Parker and slipped into the cellar. He'd never looked so small, naked and trembling as he was. I covered him with the same old robe, watched him jerk at my touch. He turned his head, his eyes red-rimmed and puffy. He opened his mouth as if to speak but I beat him to it:

"It was my fault," I told him. "Not yours."

He held out his arms to me, silent and pleading. I liked him best when he was sleeping. It was as close to peaceful as he was capable in those days. He was nearly himself again. He looked like he did the night I first left him in Oxford. Soft. Warm. Human.

The nightmares got worse after that. When he wasn't drinking he was waking up screaming. Some nights he would call for me. Some nights he would hurl abuse when I opened the door. If it was possible he talked even less. And what he did say worried me.

"I have ruined everything, Kai. I always ruin everything." "Why couldn't they have just killed me?" "I was nearly dead, you know, the doctor told me they almost lost me. Twice. But they wouldn't let me die." "I never asked for this." "I never wanted to hurt anyone." "Why won't it stop?"

But every time I tried to offer help, to turn his tearful mumblings into a conversation he shut down. Parker had marginally better luck, got a few more words out of him, and by the time the first snow fell he was just as worried as I was.

"I fear for him. I fear he may be thinking—"

"What can we do?"

He should his head. "Suicidal werewolves are out of my area of expertise."

I called Rachel frequently. Her advice wasn't much better but I liked the sound of her voice. It reassured me somehow. "It sounds to me," she said as the conversation once again turned to Luke. I could barely thing of anything else in those days. I felt as if we'd beat the issue to death time and again, talked it into the ground mulling over every minute detail; Rachel liked to know everything about everything and I couldn't stop talking so it went on for days. Today we were going in circles round Luke's alcoholism. I could kid myself no longer; he drank too much and for the wrong reasons. I was sure she would grow tired of it and leave, tell me 'Shut up! I don't care! I'm sick of hear it!' But she never did. She was kind and patient. She stifled a yawn. "It sounds to me like he needs professional help. Rehab or AA or whatever they have in England."

She'd hinted at this before but never said it outright. I didn't dare tell her I thought it would be admitting defeat.

"Think about it," she pressed, as if she knew my thoughts. "It sounds like you've done all you can do. And really, what more _can_ you do? You're just a friend helping a friend in crisis. She's he's clearly not talking to you maybe you ought to find someone he _will_ talk to."

"I suppose . . ." I didn't bother mentioning it wasn't that simple, that we weren't just friends, that we were a werewolf and a vampire (however convincing our facade might be), that because of me Luke had lost his humanity, his friends, his parents, and ultimately his will to go on. I didn't bother mentioning it because she knew all that already. I didn't bother because part of me knew she was right. "Can't we talk of something else?"

"You brought it up," she reminded me gently. Because I had. I always did.

"And I always regret it."

Luke was more than usually pissed that night. The full moon was that weekend and, well, that was an excuse for everything, wasn't it?

I met him on the road walking back from he couldn't remember. (at least they'd taken his keys to the Rover) I slowed, rolled down the window of the BMW, and pulled up beside him.

"Need a lift?"

"Fuck off."

"Come on, it's another three miles at least."

"Why? Don't want me out alone on a deserted road? Think something might try to attack me? Thanks, but you're about six years too late." He was feeling a little meaner than usual, it seemed.

"Get in the car."

"Fuck you."

"You'll be another hour to Brookshire," I tried to reason.

He stumbled over his own shoelaces. "I'm not going to Brookshire."

I nearly laughed. "No? Where will you go, then? You've nowhere else. No money, no transport, no—"

"Just the way you want it, isn't it!" He was shouting now. "So completely cut off from everyone but _you._ Dependent entirely on _you._ Kept waiting for_ you._"

"The hell are you on about?" I slammed the BMW in park, stalked across the road toward him.

He motioned sloppily. "Don't pretend you don't know what you're doing. Don't touch me!" He shoved me. "Don't you fucking dare touch me!"

"Let's get out of the street. We can talk about this at home."

He barked with laughter, threw his hands up. He'd gone quite mad. "Where's home? I have no home!"

I tried to guide him into the car, but again he evaded my touch.

"No," he was saying as he swayed unsteadily on the edge of the asphalt. "No, I know what you're doing."

"Do you?" I was getting angry now. "Please, enlighten me."

"It's been your plan all along, you see, to get me all to yourself. You followed me to University, let those damn animals attack me because you knew, _you knew_, I could never go home after that—"

I stared. I knew it was the alcohol talking. I knew it, and yet it didn't make the words sting any less. "Luke, that was an accident. A horrible, horrible accident which no one could have foreseen. You must know that."

He went on as though he hadn't heard. "And in Paris you made yourself out to be such a hero, such a benevolent vampire extending your pity to a lowly half-breed. And I fucking _bought it_." He was trembling all over, his voice rising to a frenzied pitch. "And then, if that weren't enough you go and—kill my parents." He gasped the last words and staggered toward me—I thought he was going to strike me—but he only balled his fists in my shirt and wept like a child. His next words were hardly a whisper. "Why can't you just leave me alone? Why couldn't you just kill me like the others?"

He fell asleep in the car. And thus November passed into December.

I think he frightened me a little. What had happened to the Lucas I had known before? The kind oblivious boy from Oxford? His eyes had held such light, such warmth in those days. Now they were just . . . dark. Dark like a moonless night and bitter like licorice. The Luke I saw now was a far cry from the skeptical one I had found in Paris or even the nervous one I had brought back to Brookshire. Had something happened? Was I somehow to blame for the change in him? Had it, as they say, been too much to soon? Meeting me, learning what I really was, coming to live with me despite it all. Had it nudged him over the edge? After all, he had nowhere left to run. Was I crazy to have hope that the Luke I had known was still somewhere buried inside this person who looked like Luke and talked like Luke but wasn't Luke? Was I crazy to hope I could coax him out, the Luke I had known, and make him come back to me?

Because how—_how—_had it come to this? How had we come here?


	22. Chapter 22

****Ugh. Friday's keep sneaking up on me. I'm trying to get a bunch of stuff done before I go back home next week. XP My writing has suffered for it, I think. Anyway, here you go.

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><p><strong>Chapter 20<strong>

Christmas Eve was supposed to be a happy time. Luke and I had made plans to attend the service at the local Catholic parish, something I do every year, but nine o'clock came and went and Luke was nowhere to be found. At ten thirty, right in the middle of Holy Communion, my mobile started buzzing inside my jacket just loud enough for everyone in a five foot radius to turn and glare at me. Thoroughly chastised, I excused myself to the lobby.

It was Charlie from Mitre Tavern wondering if I would be so kind as to please collect my friend as he was causing a scene. Again.

Of course, Charlie. I'd love to, Charlie. I'd be happy to drop what I'm doing and drive half way across the county. Oh, and I did I mention how sorry I am for the trouble he's caused you? I did? Twenty times already? Well, make it twenty-one and I promise it won't happen again. But wait. Yes it will. Because you keep letting him in and serving him alcohol on my tab. The tab I've closed fifteen times. And Rachel says _I'm_ enabling. . .

It was nearly eleven before I parked the BMW in the lot behind Mitre Tavern. Exactly eleven when I pushed the old oak door open on its squealing hinges and saw Luke, illuminated by the dim light at far end of the pub, trapped in a booth with Charlie, the proprietor, and once of the local authorities. Evidence of his drunken rampage lingered on in a shattered lamp, an upturned table, his unfocused gaze.

They were murmuring, the officer and Charlie, their mouths moving almost imperceptibly with quiet, serious words. I could have listened if I wanted. But I didn't want.

Luke saw me before the others. It was chilling to watch his expression shift so quickly from one of detached indifference to one of deepest dislike—it wasn't hate, not quite, but it stung just the same.

"Gentlemen," I greeted the table when I was within human earshot.

"Mr. Ross," Charlie greeted congenially, jumping out of his seat to shake my hand. "Sorry to have to call you out like this on Christmas Eve."

"Not at all," I replied, ending the handshake abruptly. "Ah, Officer Beckett," I said, recognizing the older uniformed man as he shook my hand in turn. "I thought you were on holiday."

"Just back this afternoon. Wife wanted to be home for the holiday."

"I see you waste no time."

He smiled rather grimly. "This is the third time this month, Mr. Ross. If he were anyone else . . ." Meaning if he were friends with anyone else.

"By all means, Officer Beckett, arrest him. Saves us all the trouble."

He smiled again, touched his hat, "Happy Christmas, sir," and took his leave.

Charlie saw him to the door.

"Well," I said when we were quite alone. "I suppose we ought to go; I left the car running."

I held out my hand to him.

He remained quite firmly seated.

"Please don't make me carry you out," I sighed.

He stormed out without my help.

"Have fun?" I asked as I slid behind the wheel.

He slammed the passenger door. "Only until you showed up."

I turned the key. "What did you do this time?"

He shrugged, looked out the window.

"Whiskey was it?" I jammed the car in drove and eased onto the lane.

He shrugged.

"Not going to talk to me, are you?"

"You tell me."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"I dunno. You tell me how to live every other aspect of my life. What's stopping you now?"

"I hardly think—"

"No, you don't, do you?"

I turned the car down Brookshire Lane. It started to snow then, tiny glittery crystals floating in the glow of the headlights. "Now you're just being mean." I was beginning to think he was looking for a fight. Well, who was I to refuse him? "Thank you, by the way, for timing your meltdown perfectly with Communion."

"I don't understand why you bother with that shit. You have no soul to save."

"You're right. I sold it to pay for your alcohol addiction."

"It's not an addiction. It's a lifestyle choice."

I threw the car into park. "You choose to be drunk all the time?"

"Yes, I do," he said indignantly. "It makes it easier to be around you." He was out of the car and up the front steps before I killed the engine.

I followed him into the house, trying and failing not to take his words personally; he knew just when to twist the knife.

I found him in the parlor, rifling through the liquor cabinet.

"I had Parker get rid of it," I told him.

There was the chink of glass against glass and he produced a dusty bottle of gin. "Looks like he missed one then," he replied savagely, helping himself.

"Haven't you had enough?" My voice was hardly more than a whisper, a desperate plea that went unanswered; my heart—what was left of fit—was breaking. And he knew it. He knew it and he didn't care. "Why do you _do _this to me?"

He swallowed the rest of his gin, set the empty glass atop the liquor cabinet and, smiling, said quite plainly: "Because it's easy."

And I . . . I had had enough, was fed up with the snide remarks, the abuse. Trembling with barely controlled rage, I lunged at him. So many things I wanted to say, so many cruel and hurtful things. How I longed to throw him across the room, crush him against the wall . . . So I did. I grabbed him by the collar and crushed him between the Degas and the Monet and then, quite inexplicably, crushed my mouth against his. And, for some reason only God knows, he kissed me back. Then (I presume) because he thought he should, even though (I presume) he didn't particularly want to, he shoved me roughly away. I stumbled backward, nearly upsetting a lamp before I caught myself, shaking as I was. That could have been the end of it, I could have easily walked away, but (and this is why I felt confident in my assumption) a moment later he was on me again, furiously covering me with frantic kisses. Frantic in the "let's do this quick before I change my mind" sense of the word. The same sort of frantic you get while waiting in line at the amusement park only to realize when it's at long last your turn that you don't actually like roller coasters, never did, and why did you agree to do this? But, oh, hell, too late to change your mind now. So you sit down, strap in, and either enjoy the ride or you don't. I, for one, preferred to enjoy it. Which perhaps explains why I returned his kisses with equal fervor.

So there we were in my parlor on Christmas Eve, Luke drunk out of his mind and obviously horny; myself jaded and malcontent. What else could we do? If nothing could end this feud between us, this could. And when he opened his mouth—or perhaps I opened mine—I was a goner, done for, couldn't say why it had taken us so long and holyshitwherehadhistonguebee nallmylife? It was like eating firecrackers; dangerous and stupid but so spectacularly spectacular that it was worth the burns. It didn't even matter that he tasted like alcohol; I was too enamored with the way he . . . . What was it we were fighting about? Suddenly I couldn't remember; it didn't seem as important with his tongue down my throat. But hold on. Since when did his hair get so soft? And since when did his skin smell so fantastic? How hadn't I noticed?

I hooked my fingers in his jeans and pulled him against me, could feel his erection bulging beneath his jeans, was well aware of my own. He shrugged me out of my shirt; I pushed us to the floor, fumbling with his belt buckle. I heard him inhale sharply when I caught him, felt his blunt nails dig deeper into my back; I was merciless, working him hard and fast, reveling in his strangled cry as he came and—JesusChristwhatwasIdoing? What was _he_ doing? How had we gotten on the floor? What was my hand doing so far south? And why was it covered in—Fuck. What had I done?

I disentangled myself from him and fled, leaving him panting on the parlor floor.

Trembling anew, I staggered into the kitchen and turned on the faucet, vaguely glad I had given Parker the evening off. I scrubbed my hands under the hot water until they turned pink, my mind playing horrible tricks on me.

Luke couldn't be—He wasn't—? No, it was impossible. He would have told me if he were queer. Then again, Luke never told me anything. Unless _this_ was his way of telling me. He hadn't exactly been the passive receiver. . . . Then again, he couldn't just been drunk and angry and people do really stupid things when they're drunk and angry.

Shit. I was in trouble.


End file.
